Highway Cats Page 7

  “Are you crazy?” Murray asked. “You can’t go over there. You’d never make it at your age. Anyway, they don’t want you. They’re waiting for something. Look!”

  Shredder stopped struggling long enough to notice that the kits had come together in one of their luminous blue mounds. They huddled and brightened, their tiny heads turned to look up the highway. For a long minute, nothing happened and nobody moved and time froze.

  And then another miracle occurred, something just as strange as the kits’ arrival among them. At least that’s how Shredder later chose to describe it to Khalia and the others. This time even Murray was too amazed to protest.

  Down the road came a pickup truck. As Shredder and Murray watched, it swerved suddenly out of the line of traffic and bounced onto the overgrown center median. The driver stepped out. He lifted a cardboard box from the pickup’s cargo bed and stooped down over the kittens. With a single swipe of an enormous hand, he scooped them into the box and tossed it with practiced aim into the back of the truck. Then he got in himself and peeled out with shrieking tires, leaving the stink of hot rubber behind in the air.

  SCENE: Two weeks later. Potterberg city hall, high up in the mayor’s office. His Honor Mayor Blunt stands at the window gazing down fondly upon the bustling city of Potterberg. He is conducting a private conference with Chief of Staff Farley. The roar of traffic comes from outside as usual.

  MAYOR BLUNT. Well, Farley, I did it! I won the election.

  FARLEY. Good job, sir. We’re all proud of you. Potterberg couldn’t ask for a better mayor. MAYOR. It was close, I have to say. That Potterberg

  Shopping Center access road almost ruined everything. Who would have guessed a hundred-year-old cemetery would cause such a ruckus?

  FARLEY. Nobody! You handled it perfectly, though. Canceling the road construction at the last minute, calling in the Historical Society, setting up a plan to preserve that patch of woods in honor of our first family.

  MAYOR. Our first family? Who is that?

  FARLEY. The Potters, sir. Wasn’t it in honor of them that you…?

  MAYOR. Oh yes, so I did. Early settlers, heritage, historic land. Voters seem to appreciate that sort of thing these days. Make a note for future elections, Farley. Shopping centers out, cemeteries in.

  FARLEY. Right, sir. I’ve got it.

  MAYOR. What do you think about going even further? We could open up that bit of woods to tourists, put up a monument, a visitors center, a merry-go-round for the kids. We could name it after me!

  FARLEY. Well, sir, that’s a thought. Not much land left to work with out there, though. You might want to be associated with something larger and more important, like a bridge…

  MAYOR. A bridge. Hmmm. My name over troubled water…

  FARLEY. Or a sports complex. They’re popular these days. You know that swampy stretch of land out by the reservoir? Nothing lives there now but some wild ducks and a few stray cats. We’ll get rid of them in a jiffy.

  MAYOR. A sports complex! That’s it! Farley, you’re worth your weight in gold. Let’s go to work on it. I’ll get the permits; you get the construction crew. People will be impressed!

  FARLEY. They’ll know you’re a mover and a shaker.

  MAYOR. So they will, Farley, so they will!

  (Outside, traffic noises rise to a bone-jarring roar. As the mayor continues to stand at the window, an anonymous pickup truck zooms past on the highway below, a small cardboard box bouncing in the cargo bed behind the shadowy head of the driver.)

  CURTAIN