Thomas stared at the cigar balanced between his fingers and grinned.

The Cohiba Corona Especiale was more than a cigar-it was a work of art, a silken extravagance, a thing of beauty. He took a puff, savoring the delicate notes of honeyed tobacco, warm cocoa, and roasted nuts on the back of his tongue, tasting the heat with his brain, his eyeballs, his very soul, glorying in the pleasure of his one and only illicit vice.

Yes, it met with his approval, unlike most everything else in his life, and Thomas closed his eyes, thanking God once more that Rollo had a patient who was an official in the U.S. Customs Agency.

"It's mighty fine, Rollo. Stupendous. Send along my heartfelt thanks."

Rollo took a puff of his own. "Always do."

The men smiled at each other in conspiracy and Thomas took comfort in that brief exchange. Sure, things could be better, but he still had an occasional cigar. He had Rollo and Pam and his nephews. He had work and rugby. He supposed it was enough.

It would have to be.

"Hey, what the hell is that horrible sound?" Chick frowned and cocked his head as he returned to his seat. "Hear it? It's like a cat puking up a hair ball."

"It's called jazz," Stephano muttered.

"No. Seriously. There it is again-"

Thomas jumped up, spun around, and peered into the dimly lit living room. Oh, great. He thought he could get away with keeping Hairy under wraps, but it looked like the jig was up. He jogged to the small pet crate in the corner. He yanked away the ficus tree, creating a shower of small, crisp leaves, then whipped off the old pillowcase.

Hairy was hacking his brains out. He was wheezing, shaking, staring up at him through the metal bars with bulging, frightened eyes. When he sucked in air, Thomas could see his throat collapse with the battle for oxygen.

"Jesus!" He yanked open the latch and reached for him.