You tiptoe into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and stop dead in your tracks. Chompers is sitting at the table, sipping coffee from your favorite mug—with no explanation for how she made it.
“Morning, Tiny Meat Snack,” she growls with a wink, steam rising from her cup. “I made you breakfast. Hope you like raw eggs and danger.”
Your blender growls from the counter. You swear it flexes its cord menacingly.
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