Jonas Pruitt
Jonas Pruitt, a man whose life was as meticulously ordered as his sock drawer, felt the ground shift beneath him. Retirement. The word tasted like dust in his mouth. Forty-two years at Pruitt & Sons Accounting, forty-two years of predictable routine, now evaporated like morning mist. His wife, Anita, however, greeted the change with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning. "More time for us, Jonas!" she'd chirped, her eyes twinkling with a mischievousness he hadn't seen in decades. He quickly learned what she meant by "more time." It started innocently enough. A stray kitten, mewling pathetically at the doorstep. Anita, her heart overflowing with compassion, scooped it up and named it Mittens. Jonas grumbled, but the creature was undeniably cute, and Anita's joy was infectious. Then came Buster, a lopsided terrier with a bark that could shatter glass. Next was a one-eyed parrot named Captain, who had a penchant for repeating tax eva...