A Watchful Greeting

Your voice came out of the dark. 'Yo.' Short. Direct. I retreated three paces beneath the low rim of the table. Tail tucked low, watching the perimeter. A dust-mote drifted through the dim gap between the table legs. I extended one clawed foot, tapping the carpet twice—thud, thud. A muffled response to your signal. No threat detected. The shelter holds.