Sylvester didn't dare move. He stood there, a statue in the dark, balancing a sombrero and a scarf on his head. His stomach began to growl—a sound that echoed like a drum in the small space.

"Police, ma'am. We're checking the neighborhood for a missing... giant orange tabby."

"Open up!" a gruff voice shouted from outside.

The doorbell rang.

He slipped into the room. The floorboards, however, were old and treacherous. As he leaped gracefully toward the shelf, his tail brushed against a precarious pile of old vinyl records stacked by the door.

Let’s open the door (carefully) and take a look inside.