“The Night the Neon Went Out”

I wasn’t planning on saving the gas station. 

I wasn’t even planning on being awake. But the neon sign outside the old Red Arrow Motel flickered in that way that always means trouble, and trouble is basically my alarm clock.

I padded out from behind the dumpster, soot still on my paws from earlier experiments. The air smelled like gasoline, ozone, and the kind of bad decisions that make life worth living.

That’s when I saw it — the whole motel sign sputtering, coughing sparks like it was trying to speak. I climbed the pole, because of course I did, and found a loose wire dancing around like it had somewhere better to be.

I grabbed it. 

It bit me. 

I bit it back.

The sign roared to life — bright, violent, glorious. The whole parking lot lit up like a roadside cathedral. A trucker across the street dropped his coffee. A stray cat hissed. 

I stood there, illuminated, victorious, fur smoking slightly.

People say the Red Arrow Motel hasn’t flickered once since that night. They also say I shouldn’t chew live wires...

Both statements are technically true.