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Jonathan Byers had seen things far more terrifying than a whisker.
He had survived monsters, endless nights, hospitals, phone calls at impossible hours, and the kind of silences that made a person immediately imagine the worst possible scenario.
None of that prepared him for that morning.
“Steve.”
No answer.
Jonathan stood completely still in the middle of the living room, staring down.
Between his fingers, he held something long, thin, and slightly curved.
White.
A whisker.
A cat whisker.
“Steve.”
This time his voice was louder.
From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer closing.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“I’m making breakfast.”
“Steve, come here.”
Silence.
Steve Harrington knew Jonathan’s different tones of voice perfectly well by now.
There was the normal Steve, come here, which usually meant Jonathan needed help moving furniture.
There was the irritated Steve, come here, generally caused by something stupid Steve had done.
And then there was this one.
The worried one.
Steve appeared immediately in the kitchen doorway, spatula in hand.
“What happened?”
Jonathan slowly looked up.
“I found this.”
Steve looked at his fingers.
Blink.
“A hair?”
“It’s not a hair.”
“Looks like a hair.”
“It’s a whisker.”
Steve blinked again.
“A whisker?”
Jonathan nodded gravely.
“Rocket’s.”
As though he had heard his name, Rocket lifted his head from the couch.
The gray tuxedo cat was comfortably curled up on a blanket that technically belonged to Jonathan, although Rocket had claimed ownership of it months ago.
His white paws were tucked neatly underneath his chest.
His green eyes regarded the humans.
“Mrrp.”
Jonathan pointed at him.
“See?”
Steve looked at Rocket.
Then Jonathan.
Then the whisker.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t see anything.”
“He lost a whisker.”
“Cats lose whiskers.”
Jonathan frowned.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Completely sure?”
Steve hesitated.
Mistake.
Jonathan narrowed his eyes.
“You’re not sure.”
“I’m… pretty sure.”
“That doesn’t mean completely sure.”
“Jonathan.”
“What if he’s sick?”
Rocket yawned.
His mouth opened wide enough to reveal every tiny tooth before he settled his head back onto the blanket.
Steve pointed at him with the spatula.
“Yeah. He looks like he’s on death’s door.”
“Steve.”
“Look at him.”
“I am looking at him.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Sick animals sleep too.”
“Healthy animals sleep too.”
Jonathan looked back at the whisker.
He was holding it with the care another person might have reserved for a crucial piece of evidence in a murder investigation.
“I’ve never found one before.”
“Probably because we usually sweep them up before you notice.”
Jonathan’s head snapped up.
“You’ve found others?”
Another pause.
Steve realized too late that he had made the situation worse.
“Well…”
“How many?”
“I don’t keep count.”
“Steve.”
“Jonathan, he’s a cat. He has a lot of whiskers.”
Rocket lifted his head again.
“Meow.”
Jonathan immediately walked over.
“Hi, baby.”
Steve slowly lowered the spatula.
“And here we go.”
Jonathan knelt in front of the couch.
Rocket stretched his neck toward him.
“Let me see you.”
The cat allowed Jonathan to gently hold his face between his hands.
“Stay still.”
Rocket blinked.
Jonathan inspected one side.
Then the other.
Steve leaned against the back of the couch.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent diagnostic technique.”
Jonathan ignored him.
“Rocket, does anything hurt?”
“Mrrr.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means he’s a cat.”
“Rocket.”
The cat tilted his head.
Jonathan studied his whiskers.
“I think he has fewer on this side.”
Steve leaned closer.
“He has exactly the right amount of cat face.”
“Steve.”
“I don’t know how you expect me to count these.”
Jonathan carefully separated some of the fur around Rocket’s muzzle.
“One, two, three…”
Rocket decided the examination had lasted long enough.
He stood.
Jonathan barely had time to move before the cat walked directly across his chest, jumped to the floor, and headed toward the kitchen.
“See?” Steve said. “Perfectly normal.”
Jonathan immediately stood.
“Where’s he going?”
“To eat breakfast.”
Rocket entered the kitchen.
One second later:
“MEOW!”
Jonathan went pale.
“Did you hear that?”
Steve closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“He’s asking for help.”
“He’s asking for food.”
Rocket meowed again.
Louder.
“MEEEOOOOW!”
Jonathan rushed toward the kitchen.
Steve looked at the ceiling.
“This cat is going to take advantage of this.”
⸻
Rocket sat in front of his bowl.
Completely empty.
A tragedy.
An injustice.
An unforgivable violation of basic feline rights.
Jonathan arrived first.
“Are you hungry?”
“Meow.”
“See?” Jonathan looked at Steve. “Something’s wrong.”
“Jonathan, he eats breakfast at this time every day.”
“But he’s meowing differently.”
Steve set the spatula on the counter.
“Differently how?”
Jonathan fell silent.
Rocket did too.
Steve folded his arms.
“Go ahead.”
“More…”
Jonathan looked at the cat.
“Sad?”
Rocket lowered his ears.
Steve’s eyes widened.
“No way.”
Jonathan crouched down.
“Oh, Rocket.”
The cat made a tiny sound.
“Mrr.”
“He’s doing that on purpose,” Steve said.
Jonathan looked offended.
“He’s a cat.”
“Exactly.”
“He isn’t manipulating us.”
Rocket looked at Jonathan.
Then at his bowl.
Then back at Jonathan.
“Meow.”
Jonathan opened the cupboard.
Steve pointed at Rocket.
“That! That was manipulation!”
“He’s hungry.”
“He’s always hungry.”
Jonathan took out the bag of cat food.
Rocket immediately stood.
Tail up.
Ears back to normal.
Steve pointed again.
“Miracle. He’s cured.”
Jonathan poured food into the bowl.
Rocket enthusiastically began eating.
Steve watched him.
“Look at him. Poor dying creature.”
“Having an appetite is a good sign.”
“Sure.”
“Steve.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re saying it with your face.”
“I have an expressive face.”
Jonathan returned to the living room.
He was still carrying the whisker between his fingers.
Steve followed.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Keep it.”
Steve stopped.
“Keep the whisker?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jonathan looked at it.
“I don’t know.”
Steve smiled.
“You’re adorable.”
“Shut up.”
Jonathan searched through a shelf until he found a tiny transparent plastic box.
He carefully placed the whisker inside.
Steve burst out laughing.
“Don’t laugh.”
“You’re archiving it!”
“I don’t want to lose it.”
“Are you going to put the date on it?”
Jonathan froze.
Steve stopped smiling.
“No.”
Jonathan reached for a marker.
“Jonathan.”
He wrote:
Rocket’s whisker. September 12.
Steve covered his face with both hands.
“Oh my God.”
“This way we’ll know when it happened.”
“When what happened?”
“When it started.”
Steve lowered his hands.
“Nothing is starting.”
Jonathan put the box on the table.
“I hope not.”
Steve’s smile faded a little.
Because now he understood.
This wasn’t really about a whisker.
Or at least, not entirely.
Jonathan had that expression.
Tight jaw.
Slightly raised shoulders.
Eyes too alert.
Steve had seen it enough times to recognize it.
Jonathan was waiting for bad news.
Always.
Something small happened and some part of his brain immediately began preparing for catastrophe.
Steve stepped closer.
“Hey.”
Jonathan didn’t answer.
Steve gently rested a hand on his arm.
“Rocket’s okay.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He’s eating.”
From the kitchen came the sound of Rocket pushing his bowl across the floor.
Steve added:
“He’s probably trying to eat the bowl too.”
Jonathan smiled faintly.
“He’s greedy.”
“Exactly.”
Steve slid his hand down and took Jonathan’s.
“Cats can naturally lose whiskers. They fall out and grow back.”
“Have you ever looked that up?”
“Yes.”
Jonathan looked at him.
“Really?”
Steve paused.
“Well…”
Jonathan glared.
“Steve.”
“I heard it somewhere.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Fine.”
Steve pulled out a chair.
“Let’s check.”
“How?”
“We have books.”
“Do we have a book about cats?”
Steve pointed toward the living room.
“Joyce gave you one after we adopted Rocket because you called her three times during the first week to ask if it was normal for him to sleep so much.”
“He was little.”
“He was a cat.”
“He was a kitten.”
“He slept like twenty hours a day.”
“Exactly. It was concerning.”
Steve smiled.
“I’ll get the book.”
Jonathan followed.
“I’ll help.”
“Of course you will.”
They found the book ten minutes later.
Well.
Steve found it after three.
The other seven minutes were necessary because Jonathan insisted on checking two old magazines and a veterinarian’s pamphlet as well.
They sat together on the couch.
Rocket appeared from the kitchen.
He walked with the dignity of an animal who had just finished a deeply satisfying breakfast.
He jumped onto the couch.
Then onto Jonathan’s lap.
“Hi,” Jonathan murmured.
Rocket began purring.
Steve opened the book.
“Whiskers…”
Jonathan carefully stroked Rocket’s back.
“Look for whisker loss.”
“I am.”
“Does it say anything?”
“Wait.”
“Steve.”
“I can’t read faster because you’re staring at me.”
Rocket lifted one paw.
He placed it directly on the book.
“Rocket.”
Steve moved the book.
Rocket placed his paw on it again.
“Can you move your son?”
“Our son.”
“When he behaves like this, he’s yours.”
Jonathan gently lifted Rocket’s paw.
Steve finally found the section.
“Here.”
Jonathan immediately leaned closer.
“What does it say?”
Steve read.
Like other hairs, whiskers had a natural growth cycle. Individual whiskers could fall out and eventually be replaced. Finding one occasionally was not usually a reason for concern as long as the cat appeared healthy and there was no excessive whisker loss, irritation, or other unusual symptoms.
Steve closed the book.
“Case closed.”
Jonathan didn’t look convinced.
“It says excessive loss.”
“One isn’t excessive.”
“What if he lost others and we didn’t find them?”
“Jonathan.”
“They could be underneath the furniture.”
Steve stared at him.
Jonathan looked at the floor.
Steve immediately understood.
“No.”
“I’m just going to check.”
“No.”
Jonathan was already putting Rocket down.
“Jonathan.”
Five minutes later, both of them were on their knees looking underneath the couch.
Steve held a flashlight.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Shine it farther left.”
“There’s a coin.”
“Whiskers.”
“A sock.”
“Whiskers, Steve.”
“A bottle cap.”
“Do you see any?”
Steve moved the flashlight.
Something glinted.
“Wait.”
Jonathan tensed.
“What?”
Steve reached underneath.
He pulled something out.
Jonathan held his breath.
Steve opened his hand.
Another whisker.
Silence.
Jonathan looked at him.
Steve looked at the whisker.
They both slowly turned toward Rocket.
The cat sat on top of the couch.
Watching them.
“Meow.”
Jonathan went pale.
“Two.”
Steve swallowed.
“Well.”
“TWO!”
“It’s still not—”
Jonathan stood too quickly and hit his head on the edge of a shelf.
“Ow!”
“Jonathan!”
Steve jumped up.
“Are you okay?”
Jonathan rubbed his head.
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
“Rocket lost another one.”
“You just hit your head.”
“I’m fine.”
“See? This is exactly what—”
“Steve.”
Jonathan took the second whisker.
“We need to call the vet.”
Rocket heard that word.
Vet.
His ears dropped.
Steve noticed.
“Oh, no.”
Rocket jumped off the couch.
“Rocket?”
The cat disappeared down the hallway.
Jonathan’s eyes widened.
“SEE?!”
“No.”
“He knows something’s wrong!”
“He knows what vet means!”
Jonathan ran after the cat.
“Rocket!”
Steve sighed.
“Fantastic.”
⸻
They found Rocket underneath the bed.
Jonathan lay flat on his stomach on the floor.
“Rocket.”
Two green eyes shone from the darkness.
“Come here.”
Nothing.
“Baby.”
Rocket backed farther away.
Steve sat on the edge of the bed.
“Tell him we’re not going to the vet.”
Jonathan turned his head.
“But we might have to.”
Rocket made an offended sound from underneath the bed.
“He heard you,” Steve said.
“He doesn’t understand.”
“He understands perfectly.”
Jonathan looked back under the bed.
“Rocket, I just want to know you’re okay.”
The cat remained still.
Jonathan extended one hand.
“Come here.”
Rocket sniffed his fingers.
“That’s it.”
He moved closer.
Jonathan smiled.
“Good boy.”
Rocket moved another inch.
“Come on.”
Another step.
Jonathan could almost reach him.
Then Steve made a mistake.
“When he comes out, we can put him in the carrier.”
Rocket immediately disappeared back into the darkness.
Jonathan whipped around.
“Steve!”
“Sorry.”
“I almost had him!”
“I didn’t think he understood carrier.”
“Of course he understands!”
“Thirty seconds ago you said he didn’t understand vet.”
“That’s different.”
Steve fell backward onto the bed.
“We’re being defeated by a ten-pound cat.”
Jonathan tried again.
“Rocket.”
Silence.
“I have treats.”
Two eyes appeared.
Steve sat up.
“Traitor.”
Jonathan put his hand into his pocket.
There were no treats.
Rocket didn’t know that.
“Come here.”
Rocket started crawling out.
“That’s it.”
A little farther.
“Very good.”
Once Rocket was close enough, Jonathan gently grabbed him.
“Got you.”
Rocket realized he had been deceived.
“MEEEOOOOW!”
“I’m sorry.”
Jonathan held him against his chest.
Rocket looked at Steve.
Betrayal.
Absolute betrayal.
Steve raised both hands.
“I had nothing to do with this.”
Jonathan crawled out from under the bed.
There was dust in his hair.
Rocket looked furious.
“We’re only going to call.”
The cat meowed.
“We’re not necessarily taking you anywhere.”
Another meow.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Steve started laughing.
“He’s furious with you.”
“He’s scared.”
“He’s planning to murder you in your sleep.”
Rocket looked at Steve.
“And me too, apparently.”
⸻
The call to the veterinarian lasted four minutes.
Four.
To Jonathan, it felt like forty.
Steve remained beside him while Jonathan explained the situation.
“I found two whiskers.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“No, there’s no irritation.”
Rocket was on the table trying to reach a bag of treats.
“He’s eating normally.”
Steve muttered:
“Too normally.”
Jonathan elbowed him.
“No, his behavior hasn’t changed.”
Rocket managed to knock the treat bag over.
Steve caught it before it hit the floor.
“He doesn’t have any bald spots.”
Jonathan inspected Rocket’s face again.
“No.”
He listened.
His shoulders slowly began to relax.
“So it’s normal?”
Steve smiled.
Jonathan listened for another moment.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He hung up.
Steve waited.
“Well?”
Jonathan put the phone down.
“It’s normal.”
“What a surprise.”
“She said that as long as he isn’t losing a lot of them at once, doesn’t have irritation, and isn’t showing other symptoms, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Exactly what the book said.”
“I wanted to hear it from a professional.”
“Of course.”
Jonathan looked at Rocket.
The cat was sitting beside the bag of treats.
“Meow.”
“No.”
Rocket blinked.
“Meow.”
“You already had breakfast.”
“Mrrr.”
Jonathan hesitated.
Steve pointed at him.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“He’s had a stressful morning.”
Steve opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“HE has?”
Jonathan picked up the bag.
“He had to hide underneath the bed.”
“Because you said vet!”
“Exactly.”
Jonathan took out one treat.
Rocket immediately stood on his hind legs.
Steve stared.
“This is unbelievable.”
Jonathan gave him the treat.
Rocket devoured it.
“Only one.”
Rocket meowed.
Jonathan took out another.
“Jonathan.”
“This is the last one.”
Rocket received the second treat.
“Two last ones,” Steve corrected.
Jonathan closed the bag.
Rocket sat.
He looked at the bag.
Then at Jonathan.
He tilted his head.
“Mrr?”
Jonathan opened the bag again.
“Jonathan!”
“Look at him!”
“I AM looking at him! He’s manipulating you!”
“Just one more.”
“He’s had breakfast and three treats.”
“Two.”
“You’re holding one.”
Jonathan looked down at his hand.
“Well.”
He gave it to Rocket.
Steve dropped his forehead onto the table.
“We have no authority in this house.”
Rocket purred.
⸻
The rest of the morning should have been normal.
It wasn’t.
Jonathan began watching Rocket.
Constantly.
When Rocket drank water:
“Is he drinking too much?”
“No.”
When Rocket scratched his ear:
“Did you see that?”
“He scratched himself.”
“What if he has allergies?”
“Jonathan.”
When Rocket sneezed:
“Steve!”
“No!”
“He sneezed!”
“Once!”
Rocket sneezed again.
Jonathan stared at him.
Steve stared at the cat.
“Don’t you dare.”
Rocket sneezed a third time.
Jonathan stood.
“I’m calling—”
Steve grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back down.
“No.”
“Three times.”
“He was smelling that plant.”
They both looked.
Rocket’s nose was practically buried between the leaves.
“Oh.”
Steve moved the plant away.
“Case solved.”
Jonathan sank into the couch.
“Maybe I’m overreacting.”
Steve sat beside him.
“A little.”
“A lot.”
“A little lot.”
Jonathan exhaled.
Rocket jumped between them.
He turned around once.
Twice.
Then dropped himself directly onto Jonathan.
“Mrrrp.”
Jonathan automatically began petting him.
Steve watched.
“You know he’s okay.”
Jonathan nodded.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re still worried.”
Another pause.
“A little.”
Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“Want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Jonathan looked at the cat.
His fingers slowly moved through Rocket’s gray fur.
“It’s stupid.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me the stupid thing.”
Jonathan smiled weakly.
“When I found the whisker…”
He went quiet.
Rocket purred.
“I just thought something was wrong.”
Steve waited.
“And then I thought maybe something had been wrong for days and I hadn’t noticed.”
“Jonathan.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense.”
“It does.”
Jonathan swallowed.
“I always feel like if I stop paying attention for one second, something might happen.”
Steve gently squeezed his shoulder.
“That doesn’t mean it will.”
“I know.”
“And Rocket doesn’t need you watching him every second.”
Rocket opened one eye.
Steve pointed at him.
“Although he’d probably love that.”
Jonathan laughed quietly.
“Definitely.”
“Because every time you worry, he gets food.”
Rocket’s purring became louder.
“See?”
Jonathan scratched underneath his chin.
“You’re a little scam artist.”
Rocket closed his eyes.
“A criminal,” Steve added.
“Don’t talk about our son like that.”
“Our son just turned two whiskers into three treats.”
Jonathan smiled.
“He’s smart.”
“He’s a mob boss.”
“An adorable mob boss.”
“I’ll give you that.”
They sat quietly for a moment.
Jonathan studied Rocket’s whiskers.
Now that he was calmer, he could see how absurd the entire situation had become.
Rocket was healthy.
Happy.
Well fed.
Very well fed.
Possibly too well fed.
Jonathan gently touched one whisker.
Rocket opened his eyes.
“Sorry.”
Jonathan immediately withdrew his hand.
“I won’t touch them.”
Steve rested his head against Jonathan’s shoulder.
“You know what we should do?”
“What?”
“Keep the whisker.”
Jonathan looked at him.
“You made fun of me.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because when Rocket is an obnoxious old man, we can show it to him and say, ‘Look at all the drama you caused.’”
Jonathan smiled.
“I like that.”
“But we are not keeping all of them.”
“Why not?”
Steve lifted his head.
“Jonathan.”
“We could make a collection.”
“No.”
“A little box.”
“No.”
“Label them by date.”
“Absolutely not.”
Jonathan started laughing.
Steve smiled.
Rocket opened his eyes, annoyed that the humans were moving too much.
“Mrrr.”
Jonathan immediately lowered his voice.
“Sorry.”
Steve stared at him.
“Did you just apologize for laughing?”
“We woke him up.”
“Rocket sleeps sixteen hours a day. He’ll get another chance.”
The cat lifted his head.
Looked at Steve.
Then stood.
He deliberately walked across Jonathan.
And settled at the opposite end of the couch.
With his back toward Steve.
Jonathan burst out laughing.
“You offended him.”
“Perfect.”
Rocket flicked one ear.
“He’s yours now,” Steve said.
“An hour ago he was our son.”
“Custody changes depending on behavior.”
⸻
That afternoon, something unexpected happened.
Steve found another whisker.
It was lying on his shirt.
He froze.
He looked toward Jonathan.
Jonathan was in the kitchen making coffee.
Steve looked at the whisker.
Then at Rocket.
Rocket was sitting beside the window.
“No.”
Rocket stared at him.
Steve lifted the whisker.
“Listen to me, you little demon.”
Rocket blinked.
“I’m not telling him.”
“Not telling me what?”
Steve jumped.
Jonathan stood behind him.
“Nothing.”
“What do you have?”
“Nothing.”
Steve closed his hand.
Jonathan narrowed his eyes.
“Steve.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
Rocket jumped down from the window.
He calmly approached them.
Steve backed away.
“Jonathan, remember the phone call.”
“What do you have in your hand?”
“Remember that the vet said losing some is normal.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened.
“ANOTHER ONE?”
“He’s fine!”
Jonathan opened Steve’s hand.
There it was.
The third whisker.
Silence.
Steve prepared himself.
Jonathan stared at the whisker.
Then he looked at Rocket.
The cat sat down.
“Meow.”
Jonathan took a deep breath.
Steve waited.
“It’s normal,” Jonathan said.
Steve smiled.
“Exactly.”
“He loses them naturally.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s sick.”
“Correct.”
Jonathan breathed again.
“I’m calm.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Jonathan nodded.
Rocket meowed.
Jonathan looked at him.
“You’re not getting a treat.”
Rocket meowed again.
“No.”
Steve smiled.
“Good.”
Rocket walked over to Jonathan.
He rubbed his head against Jonathan’s leg.
Jonathan pressed his lips together.
“No.”
Purring.
“Rocket.”
The cat lay down across his feet.
“It’s not working.”
Steve folded his arms.
“Resist.”
Jonathan looked down.
Rocket lifted his head.
Huge eyes.
Ears tilted slightly downward.
“Mrrp.”
Jonathan lasted approximately four seconds.
“Just one.”
“JONATHAN!”
⸻
That night, Rocket had eaten dinner.
He had received treats.
He had stolen a tiny piece of chicken from Steve’s plate.
And he had attempted to convince Jonathan that he hadn’t eaten anything in three days.
Now he slept between them in bed.
Jonathan lay on his side, staring at the cat.
Steve switched off the lamp.
“Stop watching him.”
“I’m not watching him.”
“You’ve been staring at his whiskers for five minutes.”
“I was just counting them.”
Steve turned the lamp back on.
“Counting them?”
Jonathan pulled the sheet over his face.
“Forget it.”
Steve started laughing.
“You were counting his whiskers!”
“Shut up.”
“How many does he have?”
“I didn’t finish.”
“Jonathan.”
“He moved.”
Steve dropped back against his pillow.
Rocket opened his eyes.
“Meow.”
“It’s your father’s fault,” Steve said.
Jonathan lowered the sheet.
“You’re his father too.”
“I resign.”
Rocket stood.
He walked over to Steve.
Then curled up against his chest.
Steve froze.
Jonathan smiled.
“Looks like he doesn’t accept your resignation.”
Rocket started purring.
Steve tried to maintain a serious expression.
He failed.
“Fine.”
He stroked Rocket’s head.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Jonathan moved closer.
Now all three of them were practically piled together in the middle of the bed.
“Steve.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
Steve looked at him.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel too ridiculous.”
Steve smiled softly.
“Only a little ridiculous.”
Jonathan lightly hit his arm.
“Idiot.”
“You worry because you love him.”
Jonathan looked at Rocket.
“Yeah.”
“And I tease you because I love both of you.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m incredibly romantic.”
Jonathan leaned over and kissed him softly.
Rocket immediately lifted his head between them.
“Meow.”
Steve pulled away.
“Seriously?”
Rocket shoved his head underneath Jonathan’s chin.
“Jealous,” Jonathan murmured.
“Manipulative.”
“Baby.”
“Criminal.”
Rocket purred.
Jonathan gently hugged him.
“Good night, Rocket.”
Steve switched off the light.
“Good night, mob boss.”
Silence.
Several seconds passed.
Jonathan spoke from the darkness.
“Steve.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“If it’s about his whiskers, no.”
“I was only going to say that tomorrow we should buy him—”
“He doesn’t need more treats.”
Jonathan went quiet.
Rocket meowed.
“See?” Jonathan whispered. “He disagrees.”
“Go to sleep.”
“He’s expressing a need.”
“He’s expressing greed.”
Rocket meowed again.
Jonathan started laughing.
Steve did too.
And between them, perfectly healthy, perfectly comfortable, and absolutely satisfied with the chaos he had caused, Rocket closed his eyes.
He had lost three whiskers.
He had gained four treats, chicken, and constant attention for an entire day.
As far as Rocket was concerned, the whole thing had been an enormous success.
The next morning, Jonathan found another whisker on his pillow.
He picked it up.
Stared at it for several seconds.
Then took a deep breath.
“It’s normal.”
Steve was still asleep beside him.
Rocket appeared in the doorway.
He looked at Jonathan.
Then at the whisker.
Then he walked directly toward his food bowl.
Jonathan narrowed his eyes.
“No.”
Rocket stopped.
“Meow.”
“You’re not doing this to me again.”
“Mrrp.”
“No.”
Rocket tilted his head.
Jonathan resisted.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Rocket lowered his ears.
Jonathan closed his eyes.
“One treat.”
From the bed, Steve shouted:
“I HEARD THAT!”
Jonathan burst out laughing.
Rocket raced toward the kitchen.
And Steve, still half asleep, finally understood something he probably should have accepted from the beginning:
Rocket didn’t need all his whiskers to find his way around perfectly well.
He only needed to know where they kept the treats.
The End