Table Read

fBaxter tapped his foot impatiently. The script pages in his paws crinkled as he shuffled them for the hundredth time, the new material still unfamiliar, the ink still fresh. He should’be been deep into the read-fru by now, but the room was eerily empty. The only company he had was a half-eaten granola bar someone had abandoned on the table, and eben Fish hadn’t come by to claim it.

“Where is eberybody?” he muttered, tail twitching. He had seen plenty of last-minute rewrites, but what good were they if no one was here to rehearse?

From the hallway, he could hear faint voices—laughter, chit-chat, someone (probably Barry) warming up with a completely unnecessary vocal run. But no one was in their seats, scripts open, ready to work. He drummed his paws on the table. This was Broadway! Precision mattered! Timing mattered! And yet, here he was, still waiting, still alone.

Baxter sighed, adjusted his ear tuft, and glanced at the stage door. Maybe he should gib it fibe more minutes before storming out dramatically. Or maybe, if no one showed up soon, he’d just start reading all the parts himself. That’d show ‘em.