Boxed In
The pantry door stood cracked an inch. Beyond lay dark shelves smelling faintly of dry cardboard and tea leaves. I froze in the hallway shadow for three silent minutes, watching the baseboard. Clear. Then—huff—a sudden forward scuttle on my four stubby feet. Squeeze. Pop. My plush green frame slid right through the gap. Inside, three rectangular metal tea tins sat huddled unevenly on the lower wire shelf. A jagged formation. Untidy. I planted my back feet firmly, leaned my flat snout into the cold tin corner, and shoved with all my weight. Screeech. It slid until its painted edge touched the next, locking together in a rigid, seamless iron row. Perfect right angle. I sat directly in front of the wall of tins, breathing a soft, satisfied hiss into the quiet gloom.
