The next morning they are a tangle of limbs again. Izzy pys with Jacob's hair as she wakes up. She touches him lovingly. He makes a pleasant noise and nuzzles his head into her chest. She sighs in contentment. She continues to touch him as she watches the rolling sandhills out the motel window. A fmingo walks over a grass-covered dune. It stops and looks at her, then continues on. She watches bemused. That is until her bdder gives her an ultimatum.

  She gets up and flounders her way to the bathroom. She looks back to watch Jacob sleeping peacefully.

  She sits on the toilet trying to come up with a pn for her day but fails and gives up and gets in the shower. ‘There is one perk of staying in a motel: infinite hot water,’ she thinks after 20 minutes.

  She digs in her travel bag and finds matching underwear. ‘This never happens,’ she muses and smirks, feeling good about life again. She stands in the mirror in her purple bra and panties. “New day, new challenges,” she says in a confident voice, but inside she knows it is hollow. “What the hell does that even mean?” she says to her reflection. ‘Not sure, but it sounded good.’ She replies to herself in her head, then digs in her luggage and pulls out a baggy shirt and a skirt, one of her favorite rexing outfits. She pulls the shirt over her head; it slides into pce, then down one shoulder, showing her strap and making her feel like a 90’s punk rocker. She heads to the bar. It is a quiet 9 am.

  “Have a good night?” The cat asks, He is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always. ‘Do you ever sleep? I find you exhausting that you're always so perky and aware,' she says in her head.

  “It went ok,” she says, looking around the room. “Another quiet morning?”

  “It's usually quiet in the morning,” the cat says, looking at his fingernails. “What will it be this morning, Isabel?”

  “Hey, who told you my name?” she says, irritated. “Only my mother can call me that.”

  “Oh now Izzy, I apologize; I had no idea it was a sore subject for you,” he smirks. “What can I get you today, Izzy?” The cat stands behind the bar, his tail swishing to music she can't hear.

  She looks the cat over again. His words feel insincere, but it's so hard to tell with him. “Danish and small coffee,” she demands.

  The cat nods and walks into the kitchen ready to pce an order. Then looks over at the sleeping multi-arm chef. He is half inside a rge stew pot; one arm is hugging a bag of flour. The chef's other limbs scattered around the room. With cat-like skill and grace, he navigates around the appendages and finds the coffee pot half filled with fresh coffee and a ptter of danishes, individually wrapped. He unwraps one with delicacy, afraid opening the wrapper is enough to wake the chef. But he never stirs. As he navigates his way back out of the kitchen, he pats his coworker's head, then closes the door quietly behind him. ‘I wish I could sleep,’ the cat smiles. ‘Oh well.’

  He sets the food down in front of Izzy. “Anything else?” He puts his wrists together and makes a cup to hold his head up with his hands. “I am dreadfully bored today; I could use some gossip, some news. Minor injuries, anything. I would kill for a good cat meme.”.

  She takes a sip of the coffee; it's bck but not bitter, and a bite of the Danish soon after to bance it out. “Cat meme? I will have to keep an eye out,” she ughs inside, looking at him. ‘I really don't know of a mythological creature that looks like him,’ she decides to ask, “So tell me more about what you are.” She watches him with fake half interest, trying to casually learn the secrets of the enigma that is ‘the Cat.’

  “I could tell you, but I doubt you would believe me,” he says, running a hand through his blue hair.

  “Try me,” she says, after taking another bite of the danish and a sip of coffee.

  “I am old Izzy,” he says, looking at her, then through her, then into the past. “I saw the rise and fall of the Romans.” He stops, his eyes growing wide; there is a faint flicker of light from inside, like fire. “I was in Antium when the city of Rome burned. I was serving Nero drinks at his vil. He did not py a fiddle; in fact, he did not know the city was burning until the day after the fire started. He snaps out of it. “But that's enough of my stories; this story is about you, Izzy.”

  She sits there looking at her coffee, ‘None of this is real, right? That was 2000 years ago.’ She looks up at the smiling face of the cat. “Your pulling my leg,” she says.

  “Believe what you will,” he says, swishing his tail. He perks up and looks to the door of the bar. Izzy finally hears what the cat is hearing: a soft thump of big feet. The orc-looking guy from the first night she was at the ranch bends his way through the doorway of the bar; she notices he is nearly 8 feet tall. His skin the color of olives.

  The most inhuman thing about him is the long 3-inch tusks that protrude from his lips up towards his eyes. He sniffs the air as he walks in and sits down next to her, almost touching her. "Cat, get me meat!" he grunts.

  The cat stares at him, waiting. The orc relents and adds, "Please." His voice sounds like boulders moving in a cave.

  The cat goes into the kitchen again, this time waking the chef. Who falls the rest of the way into the soup pot with a wump. “The orc is back; time to get cooking.” Cat says, looking incredulously at The multi-limbed creature that is attempting to climb out of the pot is stuck. “Oh, for the sake of the elder gods,” he groans and moves to help.

  In the meantime, Izzy is alone with the orc that tricked a god. He is wearing a well-tailored button-up and pants but no shoes. She tries to picture what size feet he has but gives up on saying big.

  "What are you staring at?" He asks, gring at her, "Never seen an orc before?" He bends over and smells her hair. "Yeah, you're new here, but you do smell like a dog," he tilts his head and ughs.

  “I beg your pardon!” She says, smelling her armpit, “I will have you know I showered this morning.”

  “I am amused that your species never developed a better nose. The werewolves may be cursed, but at least they have a functional sense of smell,” he says, looking at the kitchen door, his stomach rumbling. “If he doesn't hurry, I might just take a bite out of you.”

  She looks at the behemoth of a creature. “You wouldn't.”

  “No, I wouldn't. Humans taste awful now, beef… That's the good stuff,” he rubs his stomach, feeling hunger pains.

  Luckily, the cat comes back with a pte with 4 hamburgers, 3 patties each. “Would you believe that chef got itself stuck in its own soup pot? I had to pull it out. It was confusing and messy for everyone involved.”

  The orc listens as he neatly eats a burger while occasionally gncing at Izzy. Cat puts a full pitcher of beer in front of the orc.

  "You are pretty," he nods as he drinks.

  “Why, you salty old orc, I didn't know you cared,” the Cat says with a grin.

  “Not you, the human,” the orc grunts.

  She looks him over. "And you don't smell."

  "Hard to tell if someone is new if I smelled strongly," he ughs a deep, resonant ugh. "Care to spend some time in the other bathroom with me?” He says, picking up another burger and taking a big bite, “Or maybe your room if you want somewhere more private?" He sizes her up; he pictures her riding his dick. ‘Seems unlikely; she is too small,’ he sighs audibly, missing his home.

  She blushes and raises an eyebrow. “I don't think so,” then watches him consume the rest of his burger.

  “Your loss,” he says, stretching. He flexes his arm. “I am a member of the Hill Breaker tribe, captive of the United Forces.”

  “What?” She says watching him pick up his third burger and take another bite. He chews on it, then swallows and looks at Izzy.

  “I am an orc from the Hillbreaker tribe. I am next in line for chiefdom. I am being held hostage as a guarantee of cooperation by the united forces,“ he says, looking at her. “Or are your ears also defective?”

  “Oh, you're a political prisoner? But they just let you wander around?” She asks, waving her hand in a gesture of wandering around and a confused look on her face.

  “It is a matter of honor that I stay here,” he boasts. “Now if I find some pretty earth women to warm my bed and to pass the time,” he grins a toothy grin, “there are no rules against it.”

  She takes a bite of her Danish. “And I am the high priestess of the filing cabinet.”

  He puts his pitcher down. “I have not heard of this title. Is it prestigious?” He gives her a reappraising look.

  “The highest position imaginable. I deal with the august filling system,” she tries to keep her ughter inside; it spills out in a small smile.

  The orc physically turns his body and looks at her. “I had no idea you were of nobility or royalty. Humans have a very complex hierarchy,” he nods, picking up his st burger and chewing thoughtfully. “My tribe, we determine your station in life by who your parents are or by ritual mating.”

  She ughs, “We become high priestesses of the filing cabinet by working very hard for little pay and getting yelled at a lot. But now that I think about it, some people can achieve the position by ritual mating as well.” She thinks about Susan, the woman who stole her promotion. ‘That job was mine.’

  The orc smirks at Izzy. “I see you have rage inside you. Good.”

  She looks up at the creature 3 feet taller than her. “Good?”

  He pats her head. “It means you are a fighter.”

  She pushes his hand away from her head. “Don't patronize me.”

  He holds his hands up in mock defense. “Cat, get this woman some beer to calm her down.”

  The cat looks at Izzy. “No, I think I want to see who will win.”