The boy was telling his friend how upset his younger sister was.
He was saying, “She calls it ‘tiger’ because of its markings. Got out three nights ago. Poor kid won’t stop crying. Mum and Dad have gone out with her several times looking for it, knocking on doors, asking the neighbours.”
His friend said, “Sounds like you need the Finder.”
“Who?”
“The Finder. The old guy at 43, a couple of streets over. You know, the old man who lives on his own in that old house. He’s quite famous apparently. Reckons he can find anything. Charges a lot, but from what I’ve heard he seems to give customer satisfaction.”
“OK. I’ll check it out on the way to the bus stop.”
Later, when he left, he found number 43. Outside, there was a sign, saying ‘Finder – expert at tracking down the missing.’
He went up and knocked. The door opened. The old man just looked at him and grunted.
The boy began, “It’s my sister, she’s…”
“Missing, eh?”
“No, not her, her cat.”
“Ah! Not good.”
“No?”
“No. They can be vicious, you know.”
“Vicious?”
“Well, you wouldn’t know. When you’ve been tracking these beasts down as long as I have, you’d know how nasty they can be.”
“But it’s only a kitten!”
“Don’t kid yourself, they can be pretty nasty. Do you want it killed?”
“Of course not! It’s my sister’s pet.”
“OK. Bringing them in alive costs extra.”
“Ehm…”
“Got a photo?”
“Not sure. I’ll have to go home and check, thanks.”
He walked away slowly, resisting the impulse to run.