Lorraine gets fed up when the cats in her neighborhood won’t stop following her around Cats never stopped following Lorraine in the street. They even followed her to the park, on holiday, also to school. Lorraine got fed up, so every day she went in disguise, but the cats got super scared when they could not see her. One year ago, Lorraine saved a cat from being run over. The saved cat told all the other cats to follow her to feel safe. Lorraine lived in a small town called Berry Bay. She had lived there for two years. Lorraine was sad in Berry Bay because she’d had to leave all her friends behind in Midtown. She had been sad ever since. She had her own cat called Jerry that did make her happy. One day, Jerry let all the cats in the house and all the cats saw her getting ready in her disguise, so now the cats still followed her. People laughed and stared, so Lorraine got so, so fed up she said, “You cats go away or I will call animal control!” She really loved animals and felt bad but did not know what else to do. The cats sadly went out of the house. Even Jerry left. They went under a box. It started to rain. The cats were wet, but the cats did not care because they were so sad their hearts had flown off. The cats did not feel safe anymore, but the cats did not give up hope. When Lorraine was asleep, all the cats went under her bed. The next day Lorraine felt bad. She got a bag of cat food and looked all around the town, but there was not a cat in sight. All the cats were still under her bed. Every day, Lorraine left cat food outside her house. The cats started to realize Lorraine still loved them, so they ate the food, and Lorraine saw that they were eating. Lorraine’s mum said she was thinking of going back to Midtown because she did not like seeing her so sad and there was a new job in Midtown. The cats heard and were trying to think how to keep Lorraine in Berry Bay. They were thinking of ways to make Lorraine’s mum happy so that she would not want to move again, back to Midtown. Jerry said, “We need all the street cats to set a meeting.” All the street cats came. They said they would make Lorraine stay. “So,” Jerry said. “How can we make Lorraine’s mum the happiest lady in  the world? Tom, what do you think?” Even Lorraine’s mum started to miss Jerry, because Grump turned out to be a destructive dog. Tom said, “We have to put fish in her mum’s bed.” “Good, Tom. You will get a fish too,” said Jerry. So the next day the cats put fish in Lorraine’s mum’s bed. The mum was so mad, she grounded Lorraine for a month. The cats met again and came up with a new plan. Jerry said, “This will make her happier than ever!” Then the cats made her mum breakfast: bad milk, cat food rolls, and mice. The mum got so, so mad she locked Lorraine in her room for another month. Lorraine saw all the cats under her bed. She hugged Jerry but said to all the street cats, “IT WAS YOU! DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID? YOU LOCKED ME IN MY ROOM FOR A MONTH.” She called animal control, but they did not come. She hugged Jerry, but all the other cats went sadly away. They went under a bench, and Tim said, “You should give up on her.” But Bill said, “No, we need to know if she still cares.” The next day her mum went and got a bulldog for Lorraine because she thought it might make her happy. She was so happy the bulldog did not like cats. Guarding the Garden “Where is the cat?” said the bulldog. The cats were in the airport. They had small bags, and one of them had a suitcase that used to belong to Lorraine’s dolls. Lorraine was having fun naming the bulldog. Lorraine said, “Hmm . . . I will name you Grump.” Later, Lorraine was sad in her room. She missed Jerry, who had been missing since Grump arrived, but she did not want to say it. Over the next few weeks, things got worse and worse. Even Lorraine’s mum started to miss Jerry, because Grump turned out to be a destructive dog. First, he tore open Lorraine’s favorite dolls, chewed her homework, and got mud all over her carpet. But then, one night Grump got into the fridge; ate lots of greasy, slimy chicken; spilled blueberry smoothies on the rug; ripped open packs of rice, honey, and her mum’s special oatmeal breakfast; and with sticky paws made tracks through the whole house and ended by snuggling into Lorraine’s mum’s bed. So Lorraine was woken up with, “WHAT HAPPENED! GRUMP! GRRRRRUUUUMP! LORRAINE!” It took Lorraine all morning just to clean the kitchen floor. When she saw the rugs, she started to cry. Miles away, waiting to stow away on their flight to Cape Cod, where they had heard the buildings and streets were all made out of fish, Jerry felt a sudden flash and heard Lorraine’s voice in his head saying, Please help! Come back, Jerry. Lorraine’s mum packed up Grump in the car and took him back to his old owner, and Lorraine felt so sad she hid under her covers. A little later, when she woke up, at first she thought her mum was angry, shouting from downstairs, but then she realized she was shouting, “Oh Lorraine, how did you do it? This is amazing! Lorraine, it’s wonderful.” When Lorraine ran downstairs, she could not believe her eyes— everything was sparkling clean, the rugs were perfect, her mum’s sheets hung to dry in the garden

A radio grapples with its essentially passive existence as the world crumbles around it Radios have become old-fashioned. I know that through the snippets of conversation I hear as I sit on my table. Despite that, they’ve never done more than talk about replacing me. There’s a man who uses me the most often. He has an impressive mustache and is often referred to as “the Communicator” by the people who talk through me. I connect people who are far away. It may not be the most exciting job—I care very little about human politics—but it’s fulfilling to know what I’m doing is helping people. And when people aren’t using me, I can look out at the island of Floracion. My room is near the top of a skyscraper that towers over the rest of the city. There are impressively tall buildings and people constantly going about their business, but that’s not the best part. The best part is the flowers. Floracion is overrun with moonflowers, aptly called “gigantics,” white flowers that only bloom at night and sometimes grow over a dozen feet wide. People make room for them everywhere. On the sides of buildings, in storefronts, on roofs. Most people are awake during the night to see the flowers, and I can’t blame them. It’s spectacular. And the Communicator comes into my room every day. He, like me, has an important job. He has to stay awake during the day to communicate with nearby cities and countries. Like me, he’s made a sacrifice—for me, my mobility, for him, his sleep schedule— but we’re both improving Floracion. Together. He uses me to talk to other people while I listen, learning what I can and speculating about the outside world. Those conversations make my life, stagnant as it is, worth it. I’m proud of what I do. It’s an important job, and Floracion is—in my highly biased opinion—one of the best cities in the world. How could any sterile buildings match the flowers’ beauty? The way the city makes every hour of the night busy? At some time in the evening, the Communicator leaves. His assistants sometimes stay longer, even sleeping here in some extreme cases, but they eventually go too. And I’m alone. Beauty Among Ancient Walls But one day, he doesn’t come. It’s not his absence that worries me, but the fact that he said nothing. His assistants are also gone. They always discuss their plans where I can hear them. Where are you? I think. Static bursts from my speakers for a moment, but it’s gone as soon as it starts, and I get no answer. I look down on the island. It’s night, yet no one is out. That’s beyond unusual. Not a single car is driving on the streets, and if there are any people, it’s too dark to see. Most of the lights on the buildings are out. I check the radio stations, but there’s nothing but music and static. Even the flowers seem different. With no sounds from vehicles or the usual racket from people, the white petals that almost shine in the moonlight seem eerie. They’re more like the pressed flowers that used to be kept in the room. Beautiful, but dead. There’s no wind. Not a single leaf on any of the flowers moves, but one moonflower—a gigantic that must be twenty feet across—moves. It rotates its head, the movement slow and deliberate. This is not the wind. It’s a predator looking for prey. It’s not doing that on its own, I think, but the irony is not lost on me. A sentient radio thinking that the flower cannot do anything on its own. Perhaps the world is stranger than I know. And like a flipped switch, there are suddenly more. The gigantics closer to the ground are moving to face the street. I remember one of the Communicator’s assistants mentioning a plant called the Venus flytrap. They have thin hairs that, if brushed against by an insect, will cause them to snap shut. The moonflowers are hunting. I watch in horror as the city comes alive, but not in the usual way. The flowers look everywhere, sometimes leaning down or looking up. One of them looks at the mountain. It has no eyes, but the way it keeps staring makes me feel like a hapless fly, my doom about to be sealed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the moonflower grew legs and started walking toward me. But it didn’t, and I’m grateful for that. In the unknown time I have been around, I have perfected the art of zoning out. Of letting time pass by me as I blank, making unbearably long nights no more than a dull minute. I employ this tactic now, tuning in to one of the music stations for good measure. I think they call this genre “jazz.” It washes over me, helping me relax despite the strangeness of my situation. I don’t get much about humans, but I understand why they love music so much. It’s almost magical. Then the elevator bings. I’m reconsidering my moonflowers-growing-feet theory when someone decidedly human steps into the room. I watch in horror as the city comes alive, but not in the usual way. It’s a boy. He’s much younger than even the youngest of the Communicator’s assistants, a small girl with gravity-defying curls who had seemed to prefer looking at dog pictures than helping. When he looks at me, I remember why I do this. He looks at me like I’m his last hope. But more than that, he’s scared. Terrified. Tears hover in front of his eyes, balancing carefully on his lower eyelids without falling out. Does he know what’s going on out there? I wonder. He must, given how upset he seems. It was creepy enough for me to see the flowers moving. For someone who might be just feet away from them—that would be beyond frightening. The boy rushes toward me and begins to