make up our feeble minds, mate. Some o’ these cubs are
startin’ to move around.”
“I’m awake.” Jon-Tom turned to the bed next to Fol-
ly’s. It was occupied by a young margay. She sat up
rubbing at her eyes. She wore the same black nightdress.
“Is what Folly says true?” he asked the young cat.
“Who…who are you?” asked the now wide-awake
youngster. Folly hastened to reassure her.
“It’s okay. They’re friends of mine.”
“Who’re you?” Jon-Tom countered.
“My name’s Myealn.” To his surprise she began to
sniffle. He’d never seen a feline cry before. “Pu-please,
sir, can you help me get away from this place, too?”
Then he was being assailed by a volley of anxious
whispers.
“Me too, sir… and me… me also…!”
The whole dorm was awake and crowding around Fol-
ly’s bed, pawing at the adults, pleading in a dozen dialects
for help. Tails twitched nervously from the backsides of
dozens of nightclothes, all black.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “This looks like
such a nice place. But it’s not right if they beat you all the
time.”
“That’s not all they do,” said Folly. “Haven’t you noticed
how perfect this place is?”
“You mean, clean?”
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Alan Dean Foster
She shook her head. “It’s not just clean. It’s sterile.
Woe unto any of us caught with a dirt smudge or piece of
lint on us. We’re supposed to be perfect at mealtime,
perfect at study, and perfect at devotions, so we can be
perfect citizens when we’re old enough to be turned out
on the street again.
“A bunch of the supervisors here were raised here and
this is the only home they know. They’re the worst. We