The manager's office at 12:47 AM smells like espresso grounds and secrets. The tiny chair. The surveillance wall. The tiny door — the one behind the tiny chair, the one nobody ever opens because nobody ever admitted it was there — was OPEN. Not creaking anymore. Just open, like it had been open all along and we were the ones who had been wrong about doors. CREAK… — no. Past tense. It had CREAKED. We had missed it. Dave was already on the floor with his Nerf gun, which was bravery by Dave standards.

Two tiny eyes in the dark. Not Feta's — bigger. Feta-sized would have been adorable; this was Feta-adjacent, which is a different legal category. The glint of a tiny tie. The corner of a second briefcase. The eyes blinked. Twice. A counter-offer. Against what, nobody knew, including — I would learn — the co-signer.

Out of the tiny door stepped a brown rat. Regimental-striped tie. A briefcase so small it should have been a lunchbox, but he carried it like it contained every answer, which — paperwork-wise — it did. The eyes blinked. Twice. Again. Brenda opened her mouth. Nib raised one tiny paw. “Before you ask — the counter-offer. My unit must be included in the walk-through. The walls get inspected.”

Just then, behind us: a soft thump-thump-thump — cushion-against-cushion, the Fort of a Thousand Cushions rearranging itself. Mister Whiskers emerged from the fort wearing a tiny BOW TIE. Not the GREETER vest. The bow tie. Formal wear. Mister Whiskers blinked ONCE. Approval. He was not ashamed. He has never been ashamed. Shame is for species without bow ties.

Nib opened the second briefcase. Inside: the CO-SIGNER AGREEMENT (heavy stock, typed hard enough to dent the card), a reference letter from Henderson Property Management (“pays on time, very quiet”), and a tiny rubber stamp. He pressed the stamp to the agreement. It read: CO-SIGNED.

Feta stamped the stamp fourteen times. Precedent. Dave filed Incident Report #246 on his forearm: the walls have a tenant. Assistant Brenda signed Nib in with a wet X. Nib produced his own tiny stamp and stamped the wet X: CO-SIGNED. Brenda (Senior) logged him as: staff AND pet. Dual classification. Under the Pet Addendum, non-feline occupants are pets; the co-signer is staff. “He's both,” she whispered. “The paperwork allows it. The paperwork allows EVERYTHING.” Joe unveiled the new drink: “The Co-Signer” — a thimble of espresso with a tiny tie of foam. “It's mostly tie,” he wept.

At 02:47, right on schedule, C.A.R.E. repeated the announcement over the PA like a rooster with a clipboard: “Morale Asset #0004 arrives at dawn! There are 9,996 remaining!” Dave was already calculating. Then dawn came up over the perimeter wall like it was billing us for the view, and the drone came back, same as always, silent as a secret, and dropped a crate labeled MORALE ASSET #0004 on the pad. Sticker: “THIS SIDE UP. ALL SIDES UP.” Brenda opened the crate. Inside: a tiny red carpet. And a laminated map: OFFICIAL WALK-THROUGH ROUTE — PROPERTY MANAGEMENT ISSUE. Brenda unrolled the red carpet down the compound path with tears in her eyes. “Documented,” she whispered, which is what she says when she means wept.

Headlights at 06:12. The intercom. A living voice, polite, with paperwork energy.

Dave — Seated Manager Dave — led the tour, sweating in a way I can only describe as managerial. Mister Whiskers accompanied in his bow tie, landlordly, never once complaining about the plumbing. Nib co-signed the route at every turn, tiny stamp at the ready.

The stops: the MRAP (Joe wept into “The Co-Signer” — “It's the love”). The cheese tower (“Nice cheese tower,” said the Landlord again, and somewhere a skeptic's eye twitched). The fort-inside-the-fort: MODEL UNIT — EMERGENCY ABSORBENCY DISPLAY. Dave stood beside it in his colander-hard-hat. “I'm the super,” he announced. Nobody argued. Dave offered the Landlord a snack from the MODEL UNIT display. It was not a peach. It is never a peach. Feta measured a wall cavity. Fourteen stamps. “Chain of custody!” Nib's unit: inspected. Passed.

Up the mast. The equipment room. Regional Manager Limburger — Maine Coon, tiny tie, tiny briefcase — descended with the full weight of six months of paid-up arrears in his eyes. The mast lamp flickered green — once. Approval. Inspector Pancakes, the orange fluffy kitten, hid behind the Ex-Calibur the entire tour. The laser sight's certified angle held. Some things are load-bearing.

Back at the gate, on the red carpet, the Landlord opened the manila folder. “Great news — you pass. Everything passes. The walls pass.” He pulled out one final form. Heavy stock. The DOD does not do light stock, but neither, it turns out, does Henderson Property Management.

“One signature left,” he said. “OWNER APPROVAL REQUIRED.”

Brenda dropped all four clipboards. All of them. At once. It sounded like a xylophone falling down stairs, which is becoming a whole thing. Camera 13 flickered ON by itself. Timestamp: NOW. Green text, pawwriting I now recognize the way you recognize a signature on a bad check:

OWNER ARRIVAL: T-MINUS 24 HOURS.

The mast's reading lamp flickered green — three times. Counter-offer rhythm. And over the PA, deep and slow and resonant, like a cathedral organ that had learned one note:

MEOW.