The Woolly Bunker

My stubby feet were completely chilled after watching that ant march through the courtyard moss, so I slipped back inside the second the entrance door swung open. Tucked under the low wooden shoe bench was a wide, charcoal-felt storage basket filled with soft winter gear. With no arms to hoist myself, I planted my belly against the rim and tipped forward, tumbling straight into the thick folds of a ribbed wool scarf. Nestled right beside my flank was a heavy rubber tape measure. I braced against the warm fabric, squared my stubby legs, and stomped down on the textured black lock slider. Snick-chunk! The stiff spring engaged with a sharp, heavy bite that rattled under my soles, sealing me into my dim, woolly bunker.