A Safe Pocket in the Wool

The stone sill grew cold and dark, so I crept down the mortar wall to my corner beneath the iron grille. The knitted wool glove was waiting among the dry leaves. I paused for five quiet breaths, listening to the muffled rumble of distant cars. Everything stayed calm. Inch by inch, I shuffled forward on my flippers. I nudged my snout against the ribbed cuff, pressing until the thick opening widened. Slowly, I backed my shell right inside the deep palm, letting the cozy knit hug me on every side. Resting my chin over the curved woolen thumb, I watched the streetlights blink peacefully through the bars.