Ginger tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Marco, I wasn’t challenging you. That was textbook?perfect Latin. I just wanted you to know I’m genuinely impressed.”

  Andrea, sensing her thirteen?year?old son had given it a valiant effort but hit his limit, interjected gently. “Marco’s loved scientific names since he was tiny. My husband’s a field biologist. He used to read him wildlife guides instead of bedtime stories.”

  Marco’s shoulders tightened. Oh no. The stories. Not the stories.

  She smiled. “One day, I found Marco arguing with his See ’n Say. The toy said ‘horse.’ Marco wanted Equus ferus caballus.”

  “He knew every farm animal’s Latin name. And he needed them to be right.”

  Marco stared into the forest design on his kitten basket, wishing he was there.

  Ginger turned to him, eyebrows raised. “That’s… actually incredible.”

  He risked a tiny glance up. She wasn’t laughing. She meant it.

  Andrea laughed softly. “I swear, he’s absorbed every field guide in the house.”

  Marco rubbed his temple and fixed his eyes on a speck of glitter stuck to his basket ribbon.

  Marbles, still squinting at the bear figure glued onto his basket, asked, “What did you call it?”

  “Ursus arctos californicus,” Marco said, carefully enunciating each word.

  He glanced at Marbles, then added, “Ursus is Latin for bear. Arctos is Greek. Californicus means California.”

  Marco nodded toward the living room, where Great Geraldine loomed in her frozen roar. “It’s the scientific name for the California grizzly bear.”

  Ginger leaned in slightly, her voice low and curious. “Andrea, so you’re a biologist too?”

  Andrea smiled. “Not like Nick. I’m a taxonomist. I work for the Catalog of Life.”

  Ginger’s eyes brightened. “That sounds fascinating. What is it?”

  Andrea’s smile deepened. “It’s a global project to name and catalog every species on Earth. I’m the chief editor for Western North America. Every insect, bird, and bristlecone pine. If it lives here, it crosses my desk.”

  She gave a small shrug, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial glint. “You wouldn’t guess it, but in the world of taxonomy… I’m royalty.”

  Marco covered his face with one hand. Why was she like this?

  Lemon’s eyes lit up. “Are you a princess? I want to be a princess!”

  Andrea laughed. “No, Lemon, I’m not a princess. I’m more like the kingdom’s librarian.”

  Marbles grumbled in her squeaky old?lady voice, “Why not just say bear? Or cow? You science types and your fancy names. Nobody knows what you’re talking about!”

  Andrea adjusted her faded cotton bandana and leaned forward like she was about to share a secret.

  “A long time ago, a scientist named Carl Linnaeus had an idea. He wanted to organize every living thing—plants, animals, everything. So he built a naming system like a tree. Big branches for kingdoms, smaller ones for families, and tiny twigs for species.”

  Marco sank lower in his chair. Great. Now they were getting the full lecture.

  She glanced at Marco. “Ursus means bear. Maritimus means ‘of the sea.’ So Ursus maritimus is the polar bear. One twig on the tree of life.”

  Marco nodded solemnly. “And it’s always the same twig. No matter what country you’re in.”

  Andrea smiled. “Exactly. That’s why scientists use Latin names. Common names change from place to place. But the scientific name is universal. It’s how we make sure we’re all talking about the same creature.”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Marco sat a little straighter. For once, his weirdness wasn’t weird.

  Lemon asked, “Do kittens have a special name?”

  “Felis catus,” Marco said, without looking up.

  He braced for laughter and teasing, but none came.

  “What are cows?” Marbles giggled.

  His body relaxed and he let out a breath.

  “Bos primigenius says mooooo,” Marco replied with a grin.

  “Do unicorns!” shouted Lemon.

  Marco rolled his eyes. “There’s no species name for a unicorn. Unicorns aren’t real.”

  “Unicorns are too real!” Lemon argued.

  Marco smirked. “Nope. They don’t exist. That’s kind of the definition of not real.”

  “You’re an idiot and you’re full of crap!” Lemon shouted at the top of her lungs.

  “Whoa!” Sheila put her hands up between them.

  Lemon looked down and muttered, “I’m sorry I said ‘crap’ again.”

  Then she turned to Andrea, wide?eyed. “Tell him unicorns are real,” she pleaded.

  Andrea gazed into little Lemon’s face and reached out her hand. “Lemon, if unicorns are real, they’re very elusive. Since no scientist has ever found one, they’ve never been given a special scientific name.”

  Marco sneered. “See? Told you.”

  Andrea continued, “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Some creatures stay hidden for centuries. There are millions of species we know about that have never been cataloged or named.”

  Lemon sneered back. “Ha! Told you! They’re real!” Then she whispered at him, “Cat kicker.”

  The warmth from earlier evaporated. The moment was gone.

  Marco was sick of everything, especially this stupid Kitten Brigade. Ready to explode, he stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door.

  Sheila pleaded, “Marco, come back!”

  Lemon called out too. “Pleeeeze! Don’t go!”

  Infuriated, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the door.

  Another stream of imaginary blood spiraled from his eyes—thick, seething. It morphed into a swirling cloud of acid. It devoured the door, melted the hallway, and consumed everything in its path.

  He imagined the screams—panicked, echoing—as everyone in the dining room burned away into smoke and mushy skeletons still wearing their hideous Kitten Brigade hats.

  Pressing both hands over his eyes, he counted down from ten, slow and shaky. Then, without a word, he stood, walked back to the dining table, and pulled up his chair like nothing had happened.

  Marco focused on the squished plastic bottle of glue on the table, wishing it would reinflate. It felt like everyone was staring. He closed his eyes.

  “Okay?” Sheila asked, a little confused.

  She lifted her Kitten Brigade hat, ran her fingers through her hair, and resettled it.

  Channeling the aura of an army general, Sheila announced, “Congratulations, team! This has been our most successful kitten season ever. We’ve delivered a record sixty Kitten Brigade baskets!”

  Sheila fist?bumped Marbles. “Thanks to Anton and Ginger, we have a wonderful map showing our progress. Anton?”

  Anton stood up and put on a pair of reading glasses. Ginger pulled a folded piece of cardboard from her tote and opened it.

  It was a simple hand?drawn road map of Palm Springs and the surrounding Coachella Valley.

  Anton aimed a laser cat toy at the map, its red dot jittering across Palm Springs. Clearing his throat, he explained, “These bright blue cat heads mark the locations of the kitten litters we know about. Each one with a big red X represents a successful basket drop—verified and confirmed.”

  Marco watched the red dot drift around different cat heads in a slow, looping pattern. It was hypnotizing.

  There was only one empty area with no cat heads.

  Must be wonderful… no cat freaks.

  Anton continued, “By far, the densest area of basket drops is this red?outlined zone ruled by Golden Rays, the most exclusive retirement community in the valley.”

  He handed the laser pointer to Ginger and stepped aside.

  Ginger picked up smoothly. “From our field reports, we’ve deduced that somewhere within this country club, there’s an orange tomcat responsible for fathering at least one hundred kittens.”

  “We’ve marked each suspected litter with an orange puffball.”

  Sheila blinked. “Ginger, you just blew my mind. You’re saying one cat fathered a hundred kittens?”

  Ginger nodded. “That we know of. It could be twice that.”

  “I propose we catch that cat!” Sheila said, electrified.

  “Yes, but how are we going to do that?” asked Marbles. “If it’s wild and afraid of people, how will we even get close to it without it running away?”

  “We can trap it,” Anton replied confidently.

  “But first we need to find it,” added Ginger. “And it might not be wild at all. It could belong to someone.”

  Sheila raised her hand. “I have an idea that might kill two birds with one stone.”

  Anton and Ginger exchanged a look.

  She paused, visibly uncomfortable. “Sorry. Bad analogy.”

  Then she straightened. “Marco rescued an injured puppy today. He needs to raise money for its surgery. Here’s my proposal: if Marco finds and catches that cat, we’ll cover the puppy’s medical care.”

  Marco had no idea how to catch a cat. Nor did he want to. He needed a way out of this and fast.

  “All in favor?” Sheila asked, raising her hand.

  What! Oh no… crap.

  A flare of shock raced up his spine. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a short, meaningless “yerg.”

  The others followed.

  “Passed!” Sheila grinned at him.

  “Uh…” he bit his top lip, scrambling for an excuse.

  “Marco would love to help,” Andrea said, committing him without hesitation. “I even have a trap he can use.”

  “Shit,” Marco whispered under his breath. He was doomed.

  Anton nodded. “I’ll take him in the morning when I deliver these new baskets.”

  “I can go with him,” Marbles added. “If he needs help.”

  “Perfect!” Sheila exclaimed.

  “Anton, you take Marco and Marbles to Golden Rays to track down that cat, and I’ll meet with the vet to check on little Lucky Valentino.”

  “I want to go too!” Lemon shouted.

  Sheila smiled, folding her hands like a queen who’d just secured a treaty. “You guys work it out. I move that we finish these baskets, adjourn this meeting, and eat some dinner. Who’s hungry?”

  Marco looked down at the crappy baskets, then up at the freaky Kitten Brigade.

  Forget the cat. This was about the puppy. Tomorrow… tomorrow could change everything.