The Rustling Fold

I crept forward along the smooth grain of the counter, one cautious step at a time. Just beyond the dark glass panel sat an upright brown paper bag, its top rolled down into a crinkled rim. A faint draft stirred the room, making the stiff paper shudder with a dry, rustling whisper. I stopped, watching the shaded hollow beneath the fold until I was certain it was still. Stepping closer, I nudged the crease with my nose. It yielded with a crisp, hollow crackle, settling down into a shallow brown pocket that smelled faintly of toasted oats.