I was home late that night, and wrapping up a phone conversation as I unlocked the door. I heard the click on the other end of the line and stood in my office in the dark for a minute, tired of the grind, tired of people, tired of life. I reached overheard to turn on the light, and there he was, waiting. One foot tall, white socks up to there. Yowza.
I’d seen him around. His name was Winston Purrchill, and he was a cool cat, no question. “Hiya, sweetheart,” I said. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”