VWHEN HE HUNG UP HIS coat, I was refreshed enough to make the jump up to the shelf above that coat hook, and scramble up onto it. The shelf wasn't wide, but I found an old open shoe box that he used to hold odd bits he'd picked up, but wanted them out of his pockets. All sorts of odd stones and curious bark pieces, acorns and buck-eyes. I pushed them around until I had a semi-comfortable place, curling around them and letting my wings unfurl to their full length, becoming my blanket.
I was in the mind of that human, even as tired as I was. Trying to find out who this was, whether he was sentient or feral. He just wanted stories to write. I knew lots of them. I didn't care that he wanted to rename the people in those stories. This human liked to write mysteries. And so I sent him the fuel
