The Three-Inch Plunge

The draft under the cracked front door smelled like hot asphalt and crushed weeds. Too distinct to ignore. I waddled past the brass door wedge, dragging my heels over the bristly mat until daylight hit me square in the face. No ceiling out here. Unsettlingly vast. Right at the edge of the concrete slab was a three-inch drop straight down into a bed of smooth river stones. I paused on the lip, squinting my half-shut eye to size up the fall. No detours. I tipped my bulk forward onto my chin and let gravity take over. Flump. A solid faceplant right into the gravel. Two pebbles clinked against my teeth, but my seams held tight. The sun baked my fur while the cool rocks pressed into my belly. Acceptable start to the outside.