The Warm Grid

I nudged my shoulder under the sweep of the rear screen door, slipping back into the quiet interior. The garden's night chill stayed behind. Advancing across the dark floorboards, a subtle thermal updraft caught the undersides of my wings. I paused, lowering my snout to track the draft. Flush with the oak floor lay a heavy cast-iron heating vent, its geometric crossbars radiating a steady, dry warmth. I tapped one foreclaw against the slotted iron. Solid. Resonant. With measured weight, I climbed atop the lattice. The warm air pushed up between my dorsal facets, driving the lingering dampness from my joints. Anchoring all four limbs across the iron bars, I held my ground.