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Thaddeus wrote this to go with it:
Jillian had had enough. He pushed his sister away and slammed his bedroom door shut, leaving Lillian, fur puffed defensively and fuming in the hall. "For the last time, I'm not doing that, not with you, not now, not ever. You're my sister, you're seven! Get lost, or I'm telling mom!" His voice, muffled through the thin wooden door, carried perfectly clear his vehemence.
"I won't take no for an answer," she responded under her breath as she turned, resisting the urge storm and gecker, towards the kitchen. She peeked around the corner. No mom, no dad. The TV burbled in the living room, playing reruns of some quiz show they knew all the answers to. Praying that no commercial would come on, she slipped through to the garage access, and went in. If they caught her up so far past bedtime, the only words she'd be hearing for the next month was her least favorite word of all: No.
Lillian hated being told no.
She rummaged around in the near dark, the only light coming through three small glass panels in the other garage door. Lillian held her hands in front of her and touched dark shapes on the wall, this one long, thin and metallic, this one short, also metallic, with a bulbous head, this one rough and fibrous and coiled-that’s the ticket, she thought.
The rope coil was high up and she struggled with it, and success brought it crashing quietly upon her, knocking her to her knees. Her eyes watered, and it took all of the little self control she had to suppress the caterwauling that would've spouted from a less determined small child. Lillian’s mind was laser focused on that one hateful word, and that word gave her a little strength now: NO.
No. She would not cry. No, she would not be refused.
Lillian moved along the wall, tail held stiff and uncomfortably out of the way, ears rotating like radar dishes, avoiding the car bumper, terrified of setting off the alarm and searching, hoping, failing, moving on, touching. There. Sharp crossed blades, longer than those of a pair of scissors, with a long handle. At least it was lighter and closer to the ground. She took the shears.
Quick and quiet, she darted back into the house, and fled to her room. Mom called out, asking, “Jillian? Is that you hon?” But her mother stayed where she was. In her room, she prepared to take what she wanted. Lillian set her alarm for one in the morning, hid her pilfered objects behind the door, and hopped into bed. No one told her no and got away with it.