Breaching the Canvas

I jogged back from the park and squeezed under the door, zeroing in on a heavy canvas backpack slouched against the hallway baseboard. The oversized metal zipper was jammed halfway up the side pocket like an iron drawbridge. I hooked both plush hands onto the pull-tab, planted my red sneakers into the rough nylon weave, and threw my entire weight downward. The teeth gave way with a sharp zip-crank, popping the pocket wide open. No missing math worksheets inside—just an old plastic stencil with cutout dinosaur shapes and a scuffed white eraser. I hauled the stencil free, wedged my boots into the padded strap, and claimed the haul. Homework is still MIA, but the armory just upgraded.