The Hollow Box

A smooth cardboard shoebox sat on the oak floorboards near the front door, its lid resting slightly askew. I stopped two paces back, tilting my snout to study the dark crease along the edge. Nothing stirred. I moved in with measured steps, hooked my upper jaw beneath the cardboard overhang, and heaved upward. The lid slid off with a dry whisper and clattered flat beside my feet. Stepping closer, I lowered my head directly into the empty brown hollow. The air inside smelled of clean paper and cedar. I let out a sudden, low grunt. The enclosed walls caught the pulse and vibrated right back against my snout.