Chapter One - Petey’s Place

The rat knew where to go.  He peered down the wet alley, assessing any immediate danger.  No cats.  No cars, no people, and no horrible barking dogs either—the coast was clear. 

He shot out from behind the damp paper bag where he had been hiding.  Cold raindrops splashed against his coat as he plunged through the puddles dotting the rutty alley.  He skidded to a halt in front of a dumpy building with one dirty window and a badly hung door.  A dilapidated sign over the door read: “Petey’s Books.”

The dripping animal squeezed through a crack under the door and entered a musty but warm room.  He skittered past a dusty bookshelf and ran under a wobbly table, then bumped into a dirty shoe.  The rat hopped onto the shoe and looked up.  Two watery eyes gazed down on him from a great distance away.

“Afternoon, Mickey,” the mouth below the eyes growled.  “Yer late.”

A fat fist plummeted towards the floor.  Mickey the Rat followed its descent with his glittering eyes.  The fist opened and a handful of cat food scattered across the dusty floor.  The rat grabbed the closest kibble and began gnawing on it.  The man attached to the wrist turned away and resumed his job of counting the small amount of money in his register.

“I find it highly amusing and just a tad ironic, Petey,” a tall, skinny boy sitting at one of the tables drawled, “that you feed that rat cat food.”

“Humph,” Petey growled.  “Shows what you know, kid.  Cat food has all the nutrients Mickey needs to stay healthy.  And they don’t sell rat food at the grocery store, so it’ll hafta do.”

The boy grunted and went back to reading his book.  Mickey the Rat kept chewing.  He didn’t give a flying fig about irony as long as his belly was full.  He gobbled up the food, cleaned his face with his paws, and scurried into a little box under the counter for a snooze.  The box was lined with tissue paper and had a small cup of water in it, just in case Mickey got thirsty.

“I can’t believe the health inspector hasn’t cried for your head, you keeping that thing under there,” chided a girl who was sitting in a sagging armchair and chomping on a wad of chewing gum.  The girl had frizzy blond hair and wore holey jeans and a sweatshirt that was way too big.  She sat cross-legged in the armchair and stared down at an open book as she talked.

“Health inspectors don’t visit bookstores, Maggie,” replied a chubby boy lounging at another table.  The boy had his red baseball cap on backwards and was busy shuffling a deck of cards.

“Well, they oughtta,” Maggie replied.  “‘Specially this one.”