* * *
Kepler surveys the pile of wood, toys, hardware, and accessories. There’s no way he has any idea what I’m doing. Hell, I barely know. I have a plan, I have measurements, and I have the tools, but it’s been years since I built anything by hand, and I’ve never attempted anything half as fiddly.
I’ve never tried to build a whole world for someone before. But Min deserves that—something made with my hands and my heart, not just my schedule.
“You’d better appreciate this,” I tell him. “And you better tell your amazing mama how wonderful I am, so she does that koala thing again. And another bj wouldn’t be bad either.”
He stares at me so intensely, I think I might need to get him tiny ferret earmuffs to go with his goggles.
Minerva’s got the day off, and I talked Marley into taking her to a sports medicine conference, so I’ve got at least six hours to get this done.
“Okay, little man, here goes nothing.” I reach for my safety gear, check the battery on my drill, and get started.
My vision starts with a box. I’ve decided to make it about six feet tall, though it turns out to be a bit taller once I add the casters, so it’s easy to roll if we decide to move it later. The back and sides of the rectangle are made of plywood, which I had cut to my desired measurements in the store, since I can’t very well set up a table saw in the condo. The front of the box is just a wooden frame to hold the hardware cloth, which swings out in two panels, like the doors of a tall cabinet.
I nearly manage to take my own eye out with the pocket screws before I realize that I’m using the wrong bit, like a freaking idiot. The hardware cloth gives me trouble, too, because I need to trim it slightly to fit the doors, which requires clippers. I come this close to snipping off my pinkie while trying to hold the metal mesh flat, then nearly give myself a heart attack when Kepler runs off with a scrap of sharp wire.
“Get your butt back here, sir!” I command as I fish around under the sofa in search of the fluffy villain. God, Minerva loves this little chaos noodle. It makes me want to build him a whole universe just to see her smile. “If you poke your eye out, your mother will kill me.”
Kepler squeaks in dismay when I finally locate him and drag him out, but his eyes are intact, so that’s something.
Once the frame is done, I can move on to the fun stuff: ferret-sized shelves for Kepler to run around on, a bridge made with pieces of wood and eye-hooks, a dangly rope with a ball on the end, a stretch of see-through hamster tunnel, and the most important section of all: the wheel.
I don’t know if Kepler has ever seen a wheel before, but when I finally step back to admire my handiwork, his beady black eyes fixate on that wheel. Instead of some flimsy hamster version, I got one that’s designed for cats. It’s freestanding, and supposedly it can withstand all kinds of wear and tear. Now, if only I can convince Kepler to use it.
Minerva keeps a container of baked chicken shreds in the refrigerator for treats. When I go to grab it, Kepler dances around my feet in anticipation. I set a few pieces on the wheel to lure him closer.
“Good job.” I rub his back with my finger while he eats. “Good job, bud, so brave. Want to take a couple of steps? See how you like it?”
Kepler’s sneaky when it comes to nipping the chicken out of my grasp before he has to take a single step, but eventually, I manage to get all four of his feet on the wheel. When I offer him a fresh morsel, he takes a step forward. The wheel rotates slightly. He freezes in alarm.
“You’re okay,” I coo. “Give it a chance, I think you’ll really—”
Kepler bolts. Except, because he’s running forward, all he manages to do is get the wheel going at about a hundred miles an hour. I don’t know if that was the plan or if he started off scared before realizing that this wheel is the greatest thing to ever happen to him. Either way, I’m left holding a piece of cooked chicken while Kepler enters a state of zoomie nirvana.
I don’t understand how such a little guy can have such a bottomless well of energy. Kepler runs as fast as his tiny legs will carry him. Eventually, he feints sideways, launches off the wheel, and surges up the twisting pipe of hamster tubing, all the way to the top of his new playground. From there, he parkours down the platforms I’ve installed here and there, tackles the dangly toy, tumbles off a ledge, drops four inches to the floor in a breathless heap, and vaults back onto the wheel in one unbelievably fast, semiliquid motion.
“Damn, dude, wish I had your skills.” I chuckle to myself as I gather up my tools. I’m not sure what Minerva will think, but Kepler already loves it.
The pale surface of the plywood stands out in the kitchen. Maybe I should stain it to match the rest of the furniture? I’m not sure what I’d need to seal it with to make it safe for Kepler to play on, and it’s getting late. Even if I ran out to the store right now, I wouldn’t be able to get a coat on before dark.
Once I’ve got my crap cleaned up, I settle onto the couch to do some stretches while researching safe stains for pet structures. If I’m going to share my space with this playpen, I want it to look good.
It takes Kepler twenty solid minutes of extreme zoomies and American Ninja Warrior-level exertion to tucker himself out. I’m deciding which of two pet-safe stains to order when he hops up onto the couch, clambers onto my chest, and sacks out.
“Oh, come on,” I complain. “At least give me time to get more comfortable.”
Kepler wriggles closer and nudges his head under my chin. He lets out the cutest fucking chirrup! I’ve ever heard in my life.
Well, goddamn it. I guess I’m stuck here now. Not the worst thing—being trapped under something Min loves.
Kepler’s dead asleep on my chest, making huffing noises against my collarbone. His body is warm and limp after his full cardio session on the wheel, and I’m scrolling mindlessly on my phone so I don’t accidentally wake him.
That’s when I see the unread messages in the family group chat.
Mostly memes from Ellie. Some blurry shots of my parents’ dog wearing a scarf. A photo of fresh cinnamon rolls that my mom probably made for Dad’s union meeting. I scroll back a few days. I haven’t said anything since Monday.
The guilt hits in a tender, familiar wave. They’re my anchor. And I’ve been drifting without meaning to.
