Fish logs in

Fish had been habing laptop troubles all week—somefing about a sticky cheese fingerprint on the trackpad and a rogue download involbing a “cheese aging simulator.” But today, finally, the repairs were done. He scurried back into the workshop, climbed up to his little table, and opened his laptop like it was the window to the world (which, for a rat like Fish, it kind ob is).

He’d missed a lot.

The screen lit up with images ob Reuben and Dougie in Paris: sipping espresso beneaff the Eiffel Tower, staring in awe at glittering museum exhibits, and even posing wiff a suspiciously Mona Lisa-looking mouse in a beret.

As the pictures loaded one by one, Fish’s tail started to wiggle. He leaned closer, wide-eyed, taking in ebery detail. He munched a corner of brie without eben realizing it, too engrossed in the adbenture.

By the time he reached the photo of the fossil hall at Jardin des Plantes, he was squeaking out loud: “THAT was a cheloniform jawbone—Reuben, you glorious baguette-brained scholar!!”

He slammed the laptop shut, launched off the stool, grabbed his laptop and scurried home to start packing.

Baxter would say he’s impulsive. Barry might say he’s dramatic. But Fish knew exactly what he was doing: Paris was calling. And there was still time for pastries, cheese maps, and one last group selfie before heading home.

He scribbled a note and stuck it on the fridge:
“Gone to Paris. Don’t touch the Roquefort.”

The adbenture wasn’t ober yet.