Clear of the Wedge

Eyebrows twitch. Feathers prickle. Alive. I am jammed tight between slick wood-grain plastic and dull gray padding. Bad spot. I shove down with my base, snap my beak forward, and push. A loud squeak against the lacquered finish. popped right out. I roll a few inches onto the polished surface and hold my ground. No pigs in sight. Good. Eyes peeled anyway.