“Who?” Max asked confused for a moment, then recognition flooded his face, “Oh. You mean Mimi.” Mirren sounded weird, and different than the association he built in his head with the fiery redhead.

The boy flopped back exasperated on the bed. “Fine. I just don’t want the cat crawling all over me when I sleep or going after my owl. That’s the only reason I asked.” Because if that happened and he somehow killed this owl, then he was sure Becks would probably really have a good reason to turn him back to the orphanage.

Cal was rooting for stuff in his trunk and putting stuff in his dresser (which seemed kind of silly, why wouldn’t he just get stuff from his trunk as he needed it? Did he really need all those trousers set aside?). So Max stayed parked where he was on his bed, reaching restlessly for his bookbag and finding within it a small ball. It was something one of his fake-uncles, Tom, gave him. A little leather ball stuffed with something heavy like beans, stitched tight together, palm-sized and perfect for kicking or throwing around. The boy kicked off his shoes messily and laid back in bed. Distractedly, he started to throw the ball up and catch it. It took just one try to hit the ceiling above him with the ball with a satisfying thud.

So the boy continued – throwing the ball again, hitting the ceiling again with a loud crack, catching it. Over. And over. And over.

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