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It was half past dahen the phone rang It shattered the first dreaht into a thousand pieces so that I couldn't even re and confused, asleep just long enough to feel worse but not rested

Nathaniel groaned beside , "What time is it?"

Micah's voice ca, thick with sleep "Early"

I tried to sit up, sandwiched between the two of them where I always slept, but I was trapped Trapped in the sheets, one arled in Nathaniel's hair He usually braided it for bed, but last night we'd all gotten in late, even by our standards, and we'd just fallen into bed as soon as we could e it

"I' to extractworse His hair was thick and fell to his ankles; there was lots of it to tangle

"Let the machine pick up," Micah said He'd raised up on his elbows enough to see the clock "We've had less than an hour of sleep" His hair was a mass of tousled curls around his face and shoulders His face was dim in the darkness of the blackout curtains

I finally got my hand free of Nathaniel's warm, vanilla-scented hair I lay onfor the machine to kick in and let us knohether it was the police for me or the Furry Coalition hotline for Micah Nathaniel, as a stripper, didn't get eency calls much Just as well; I wasn't sure I wanted to knohat a stripper eency call would be The only ideas I could cos, and the machine finally kicked on Micah spoke over the sound of his own voice on the e "Who set the s?"

"Me," Nathaniel said "It seemed like a better idea when I did it"

We'd put in the second phone line because Micah was the et advice or a rescue You know, I'et al to be a wereanimal, but new ones sometimes lost control and ate someone before they came to their senses They'd probably be shot to death by the local police before they could be charged with et very, very bad

Micah understood the problems of the furred, because he was the local Ni

There was a e, too fast, frantic The soundthe sheets pool into my lap "Anita, Anita, this is Larry You there?" He sounded scared

Nathaniel got the receiver before I did, but he said, "Hey, Larry, she's here" He handed me the receiver, his face worried

Larry Kirkland--fellow federal marshal, animator, and varown, or aged, since he'd started working with me

"Larry, what's wrong?"

"Anita, thank God" His voice held more relief than I ever wanted to hear in anyone's voice Iti that would take some awful pressure or problem off their hands

"What's wrong, Larry?" I asked, and I couldn't keep the worry, out of my own voice

He sed hard enough for me to hear it "I'm okay, but Tammy isn't"