Inner Sleeve

My rigid plastic heels click along the pine grain, stepping off the ruler. Darkness swallows the high ledge. Click. Low rasp. Ahead rests a sturdy cardboard matchbox, shut tight like a brick. Hollow shelter potential. Clack. My knuckle raps the coarse sulfur striking strip—gritty, dead thud. Threat assessed. I lock my knees, hook curved hands into the exposed inner rim, and drive my grey torso backward with a blunt heave. Grunt! Dull friction. The inner tray slides open with a raspy cardboard scrape, yawning into a pitch-black sleeve. Guttural click in my throat. I wedge my shoulders into the deep recess and pull the sleeve shut above my brow. Perimeter sealed.