My grandma was the kindest woman I knew. A sweet old lady, always ready to lend a hand. Her cottage was cozy and warm, though it always carried a strange, sour smell that never quite went away. After so many evenings together, Granny and I came up with a project. Pets had been disappearing all over the neighborhood—cats, dogs, even hamsters. Their owners wept and posted signs on every corner. Granny told me it was a sickness, a terrible one, and only she knew the cure. “Oh, what wonderful news!” I exclaimed. “You could save everyone’s pets!” That’s how it started. Each evening, I would catch a wandering cat and bring it to Granny. She’d take it into a room, lock the door, and after a few moments of yelps or scratching, silence. When she opened the door, the animal was gone. “There! All cured. It went back home,” she’d say with a smile. I always believed her. Though sometimes, there’d be a dark trail of blood on the floorboards. She’d sigh and hand me a broom. “Mercy me, I must stop getting blood on these hardwood floors!” We swept it up together, laughing at her clumsiness. Still, pets kept vanishing. Granny shook her head gravely and said the sickness must be getting stronger. But I wasn’t worried. After all, I was helping her. I was a hero. Lucky, lucky me.