"You buy cats?" Mrs. Gable demanded, clutching her handbag. "For what? Research? Fur?"
Within a week, the sign was gone. The shop was empty, save for a single, stray ginger hair on the mahogany counter. The townspeople stayed quiet, but they all started talking to their cats a little more softly—just in case someone was still listening. we buy cats
He leaned forward. "We don't keep them. We listen to them. We have a 'Translator' in the back—a machine of tubes and velvet. Once we’ve downloaded their memories of sunbeams and human whispers, we return them to the 'seller' with a generous check and a bag of premium tuna." "You buy cats