Just a few feet away, nestled in the fronds of a fan palm, sat a massive Cooper’s hawk (Accipiter cooperii).

  It hadn’t noticed him yet.

  Marco carefully backed away from the open window and bolted for the kitchen.

  He tore through the refrigerator drawers, searching for raw meat. There was only a single leftover hotdog in a Ziploc.

  Returning to his bed, Marco knelt on the pillows and held out the hotdog toward the big brown hawk.

  It turned its neck, gazing at him with slow, deliberate focus.

  “Come here, hawk,” Marco whispered. “I have some food for you.”

  He gave the hotdog a little jiggle.

  Marco hoisted himself onto the window ledge and glanced down at the gravel path below.

  The palm fronds barely moved, stiff and silent in the heat.

  Marco didn’t flinch. If the hawk lunged, if he lost his footing—so be it.

  One slip and he could crack his skull open, but that didn’t stop him.

  He was tired of worrying about things that might go wrong. Finally, he had a chance to train a hawk, and all he had to do was gain its trust.

  Leaning farther out the window than ever before, he held the limp hotdog in his hand and called softly,

  “Here, hawk… here’s a treat…”

  Rowf scrambled up beside him, snorting and pawing at the ledge.

  “Rowf! Rowf!” he barked, tail wagging like mad.

  Startled by the noise, the hawk turned sharply and launched. It was gone in seconds.

  “Great job, Rowf,” Marco muttered. “You scared it off.”

  The aspiring naturalist climbed back through the window and stood on the bed.

  Rowf rose up on his hind legs, begging for the cold hotdog in Marco’s hand.

  “Here,” Marco sighed.

  He broke off a piece and gave it to the little dog, then ate the rest himself.

  Tired, he stretched out beneath the open window. He loved the feel of the hot desert breeze drifting in, brushing against his cheeks and eyelids like it knew him.

  The dry heat was so relaxing he drifted off—until the doorbell rang and jolted him awake.

  The Kitten Brigade had begun to arrive.

  Oh shit. I left that expired pack of peanuts on the counter.

  “Marco? Get the door!” his mother yelled from the other room.

  Still groggy from his nap, Marco dragged himself out of bed and wandered toward the front door, passing his mom at the dining table.

  She was helping Sheila prepare for the meeting.

  He reluctantly opened it and was greeted by a sophisticated elderly couple.

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  The man was tall and built like a pro wrestler with massive arms covered in bird tattoos.

  A samurai-style man bun pulled back his long hair and in his hands, he held a large cardboard box overflowing with wicker baskets.

  The woman was slender, exuding a worldly air. Her graying hair was swept into a casual ponytail, streaked boldly with electric blue.

  Glamorous designer sunglasses framed her face, and a colorful silk scarf cascaded around her neck.

  She carried a large handwoven tote bag that perfectly matched her chic Palm Springs outfit.

  Marco gulped. These were definitely not the kind of kitten-cuddling grandmas he’d been expecting.

  The heat had hit its peak. Even in the shade at the top of the stairs, the thermometer blazed at one hundred and eight degrees.

  They hurried inside, and Marco shut the door firmly behind them.

  Sheila greeted the couple warmly, offering each a Hollywood kiss on the cheek.

  Turning to the older woman, she asked, “I love your outfit—Trina Turk?”

  “Who else?” the woman replied, flashing a knowing smile.

  “Me too,” Sheila said, grinning as she twirled in her summer dress.

  Andrea told them to make themselves at home and they settled beside Marbles on the couch, just as the doorbell rang again.

  Marco opened it. Outside stood their neighbor Gretty Lime and a stocky little girl dressed head-to-toe in yellow.

  Without a word, he closed the door on them.

  “Was that Gretty?” his mother asked, shooting Marco a warning look as she pulled the door open again.

  “Hi, Gretty! This must be Lemon.”

  The little girl looked up at Andrea and smiled sweetly, with the easy confidence of someone used to being adored.

  Sheila stepped into the entryway and asked, “And who’s this?”

  “Lemon is Gretty’s granddaughter. I told her she could come over and help with the baskets”

  The little girl smiled broadly and announced, “I love kittens! I also love unicorns!”

  Sheila squealed with delight, “Oh! You’re absolutely adorable!”

  Marco winced. Of course she loved unicorns.

  “Well, go in. We don’t want to air-condition the whole neighborhood,” Gretty urged.

  She motioned Lemon toward the door and gave her a gentle shove.

  “Thanks again, Andrea,” she added, her voice warm. “I finally have a meeting with the HOA about those stubborn brown spots in my lawn.”

  Lemon went inside and immediately zeroed in on the snacks.

  She grabbed a cookie, took a bite, and turned toward the living room.

  “Holy crap! It’s a bear!” she shouted, crumbs flying like confetti.

  She bolted through the living room and scrambled up the old leather chair in the corner, staring down the snarling face of Great Geraldine, the giant stuffed grizzly.

  “Slow down, missy! You’re giving me a heart attack!” Marbles declared. She fanned herself with both hands and checked her neck pulse.

  Still standing on the chair, the little girl turned and introduced herself with a dazzling smile.

  “Hi! I’m Lemon! I’m seven! I like bows and sparkles and being helpful! Where are the kittens?”

  Furious, Marco marched in, shouting, “Hey! Get off my dad’s chair!”

  Lemon jumped down from the chair and kicked Marco hard in the shin.

  “You tried to kick Angel! I’m kicking you now!” she declared. “Ha!”

  Pain shot through his leg, but he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Two minutes into this Kitten Brigade thing and I’m already being assaulted.

  Dumb girl, I’ll show her.

  “That didn’t hurt. You can’t hurt me,” he said through clenched teeth. “My shin’s made of metal.”

  “Yes I can,” Lemon answered.

  The three on the couch watched, enjoying the entertainment.

  “Try it then,” Marco said. “Kick me as hard as you can. I won’t feel a thing.”

  Lemon looked at him, a little unsure. Then she swung the point of her shoe as hard as she could, straight into Marco’s shin.

  Ow! Marco thought silently.

  He refused to let the throbbing pain in his leg show on his face. “See? I told you,” he insisted, standing there like everything was normal.

  Marbles turned to the chic woman with the ponytail, eyes wide. “Does he really have a metal shin?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, mystified. “I only just met him.”

  Lemon kicked Marco in the shin again. “Still metal?” she asked.

  “KIDS!” Andrea came into the living room. “Please play nicely!”

  “Marcooo… Lemon…” Sheila called in that singsong way adults use when trying to sound calm but firm.

  “Why don’t you come in and sit down at the table? I want to show you how to tie a bow on a basket.”

  Then she summoned the rest of the group. “Everyone, if you could all please come sit at the table, we’re ready to start the meeting. I have handouts…”

  Marco sat down at the dining table and found himself surrounded by charming wicker baskets, soft, silky ribbons—and, worst of all, rainbow glitter. He tried to think of a way out. A cramp, a need to vomit… anything. But he realized he had no legitimate excuse his mother would believe, and let out a quiet, desperate cry.