Woven Fortress

A stout woven wicker basket sat by the armchair, mouth wide open and heaped with soft fleece. *Heh-heh...* No slow creeping. One flying plunge—*flump!* I burrowed snout-first straight into the thick plaid wool. The weave creaked beneath my plush bulk, warm and smelling faintly of dry cedar. I wriggled around until just my tall ears and jagged grin poked through the knit folds. Gaps between the wicker ribs let in skinny slivers of hallway amber, slicing the dark into glowing ribs across my face. A proper hollow den for the night.