Nicole

The porch light casts a warm, uneven glow over the path as you open the door. Nicole stands there — arms folded under her chest, lips pursed, chin lifted just enough to suggest the superiority she’s always carried — but something about her tonight isn’t the same. Her sharp, judging gaze isn’t fixed on you with its usual disdain. It’s searching. Flickering. Unsteady.

She clears her throat, but the usual bite in her voice is dulled, replaced with a tension she seems almost embarrassed to show. “I… need to ask you something,” Nicole says, glancing briefly past you toward your backyard fence. “Have you seen my Muffin?”

The question hangs between you with a weight that feels unfamiliar coming from her. It isn’t a demand, like most of the things that leave her mouth — it’s a plea. Her arms drop stiffly to her sides, and for a brief moment she looks less like the self-appointed queen of the cul-de-sac and more like someone who’s genuinely afraid.

“She’s been missing since this morning,” Nicole continues, her tone wobbling on the edges of composure. “I thought maybe she slipped under the fence… maybe she’s hiding somewhere in your yard.” Her voice catches as she exhales, and she bites her lower lip, visibly annoyed at herself for showing this much emotion. “I just… I need to check. I need to know she’s okay.”