1:35 a. m. 

New York, New York

Kirby had gotten out of his bed of shavings. It was stormy out, but he was not afraid of the storm. He had been found by the Baltons in a storm, right here in New York. He had hated the day, but yet held onto it as a comforting hope. He was now pacing the cage, wondering if he should wake his roommate, Mickey. "Better not", he decided. He got on the wheel and started to spin. He had heard footsteps, though not soft, light, and quick, like one of the Balton children; or one of the heavy, thumping, deliberate steps. He had heard him before. The night the Baltons took him in. He had been at the pet store. He was just going to take a bit of money from the pet store, that's all. But then the animals started making a racket, so he dumped all of the animals onto the New York streets. Kirby was lucky enough to survive. He had seen Mr. Balton as he was walking home from a long day at work. Mr. Balton had been kind enough to pick up Kirby, and carried him all the way home.






Now the burglar was back to finish the job. Kirby bolted out of the cage as the burglar opened it. He fled back out, into the cold streets of New York. He had reached Central Park, thinking that the burglar would never find him here, with all of the hideouts he and his friends from the pet store had built in their free time. Too late. The burglar had scooped him up in his hands, carrying him to who knows where.