UNFINISHED DRAFT
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It was dark and quiet in the heart of the city. He couldn't fall back asleep. His heart was beating hard. His sheets were soaked through. Nightmares always woke up him around the same time.
Mickey was sleeping on the floor. He made a little pss pss sound and scratched the side of his bed. The cat opened its eyes and looked up at him, indifferent.
"Mickey, c'mere you dummy."
Mickey got up, curled himself, flattened himself, marched out his bedroom door, and was gone.
"You little orange terrorist."
He laid there with his eyes open for a while, apparently thinking about something. And then weakly, and with some resignation in his voice, he said it.
"Call Sara."
The phone screen gently lit up. Calling...
Brrrrrrrrp.
Brrrrrrrrp.
He rolled his eyes and chuckled a little bit. As if she wouldn't answer.
Brrrrrrrrp.
The rings were convincing, though.
The phone screen lit up a little brighter.
"Dude... what the hell," she said when she answered. "What even time is it..."
He groaned a little bit. "I just missed you."
Sara laughed. "Are you serious right now."
"Sadly for us both, I am," he said. "So, what are you up to?" Dumb question.
"Oh just working on my magnum opus I call getting some fucking sleep," Sara said, quietly laughing, "but I guess if you were to put a gun to my head and ask me for a serious answer I'd say... uh... trying really hard not to move my feet right now."
"Why?"
"Because, dude, I can feel Mickey purring. It's like a massage," she said, smiling, "whatever's going on here, if I just don't move an inch, everybody wins."
She had named him. Mickey Meowse.