Wren heard it at seven minutes past quiet.
She was on the armchair — the good one, with the fraying arm — when one enormous ear swivelled left, all on its own. A sound was coming from the garage. Faint, but clear. *Ten. Nine. Eight.* Wren knew every sound in this house. The knock of the pipes. The fridge's low hum. But a countdown was new. And a mystery that counts down cannot wait.
She dropped from the armchair without a sound. Four grey paws on cold floorboards. Down the dark hallway, past the laundry basket with the one sock hanging over the edge, around the corner, and there: the garage door, pulled almost shut.
Wren pressed her nose to the gap and pushed.
The garage smelled of cardboard and sticky tape and something that had been very seriously worked on for a very long time. A single bare bulb swung overhead. And there, in the middle of the floor, was a rocket. A real one — mostly. It was made from three boxes stacked tall, with a spinning desk fan taped to the back and the word *T-MINUS* written in wobbly red marker. Wren's whiskers twitched once.
Inside the rocket were four kittens.
They were crammed in like socks in a drawer: one wearing swimming goggles pushed up on her forehead, one with a colander on his head for a helmet, one clutching a wooden spoon, and one sitting on what appeared to be a biscuit tin. In the middle of them all, a kitchen timer clicked steadily. *Ten. Nine. Eight.* It had been clicking for quite some time.
"It hasn't launched," said the kitten with the colander.
"I *know* it hasn't launched," said the kitten with the spoon.
Wren stepped inside. A mystery that counts down cannot wait — but this mystery, it turned out, had been waiting for two hours.
The problem, they explained all at once, was that they had no Mission Commander. Everyone knew a rocket needed a Commander. They had a checklist — written on the back of a cereal box lid — but no one had been allowed to read it yet because reading the checklist was the Commander's job, and they didn't have one, and so here they were. Still on the ground. Timer still ticking.
Wren looked at the cereal box lid. She looked at the kittens. She sat down, tucked her tail around her paws, and took the lid in her teeth.
She conducted the checklist with great gravity.
Seatbelts — the kitten with the spoon held up a skipping rope knotted around everyone's middle. *Yes.* Snacks — the biscuit tin opened to reveal four slightly squashed crackers. *Yes.* Destination: the moon. *Confirmed.* Fuel — Wren looked at the fan. The fan looked back. *Sufficient,* she decided, and set the cereal box lid down. A mystery that counts down cannot wait.
"*Ten,*" said Wren. "*Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.*"
The fan whirred. The timer hit zero with a small, bright *ding.*
"*Mission complete,*" said Wren.
The kittens erupted. The kitten with the colander threw it in the air. The kitten with the spoon banged it on the biscuit tin. The one with the goggles pushed them down over her eyes and announced they had definitely been to the moon, and it had been excellent, and now she was very tired.
They all were.
Wren escorted them back through the hallway — past the laundry basket, past the one hanging sock — and saw them into their basket in the kitchen, a warm heap of colander and goggles and spoon. She watched until the last small set of paws stopped wriggling.
Then she returned to the armchair. The good one. She stepped up, turned once, and tucked all four paws neatly beneath her.
One slow blink. Mystery solved.
