Gabe didn't go looking for the role as Earth's defender against marauding aliens; in fact, quite the opposite. Pet-sitter by day, jump-blues guitarist by night, Gabe's plate is, as they say, quite full. He has his ducks all in a row. He and life are reading off the same page. You get the picture. But fate is not some bleeding heart, Mr. Rogers do-gooder. Oh no. Once he decides that it's Gabe's turn at bat, he reaches out his gnarled hand--or in this case, raccoon paw--clutches Gabe's shoulder, spins him around and impresses in no uncertain terms that the fate of the world is in his hands. That's Gabe's hands. Adding to the non-trivial problem of saving the world, though, is Gabe's growing suspicion that fate in the form of a raccoon is lying.