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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

“My bad,” I say, though I don’t think he hears. He is too busy thinking. Formulating an escape plan. He breathes heavily in my ear for twenty seconds. Thirty.

It is 3:59 a.m.

I have to do something.

Now.

I lift up my hand.

I do the peace sign.

At least that's what I'm hoping Cal thinks it is.

“Don't fucking move.”

I flash the peace sign again.

Two.

I drop a finger.

Ray glares at me curiously.

One.

I drop the second finger.

Now.

I whip my head to the side.

The sound of bursting glass fills the room.

When I look down, I see Cal on the floor, a bullet hole just over the bridge of his nose.

The last thing I remember is Red crashing through the door, the sniper rifle held at his side.

…

POLICE OFFICER FRAMED PRESIDENT!

PRESIDENT INNOCENT!

SULLIVAN DIDN'T DO IT!

INNOCENT-GATE!

Those are the headlines.

The FBI interviewed each of us — mine was done over the phone — but the main evidence was the tape of Cal's admission that Red had been recording through the microphone in the President's sweatshirt. Lucky for us, he'd been listening and knew that Cal had taken me hostage. I'd noticed a glimmer off Red's scope through the window, something Cal had evidently missed.

I'd woken up the next night in my bed and had later found out that the President himself had carried me up the three flights, though I'm sure Red helped. There had been a card next to me. An orange Monopoly card. A Get Out of Jail Free card. I think it was the President's way of saying that he owed me one.

That had been four days ago.

Lassie and I were still trying to decide what we should use the card for.

“What do you think, buddy? Should we cash this baby in for a ride on Air Force One?”

Meow.

“The Taj Mahal? Is that even a thing?”

Meow.

“What it is with you and Justin Timberlake?”

Meow.

“A bag of mice? Now that's a little too practical.”

Meow.

“That's what I'm talking about. Jet packs.”

Meow.

“I think Jessica Alba's husband might have something to say about that.”

Meow.

“Pretty sure you can only do that in Mexico.”

Meow.

“I'm gonna act like you didn't say that.”

Meow.

“Thanks. Now I'm thinking about midgets.”

Meow.

“He's the President, not the Wizard of Oz.”

Meow.

“Twenty Murdock clones? Seriously?”

I'm pretty sure this would have gone on forever, or at least for the forty-seven more minutes left in my day, had a stunning, and very naked woman not walked in with two bowls of cereal.

“Breakfast in bed.”

Ingrid plops down next to me.

She feeds me a big spoonful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and says, “I think the Justin Timberlake thing sounds pretty good.”

“I bet,” I say, sending us both into a fit of laughter.