Tilly Mouse

I was born in the hay stack. It is tall and soft and dusty. When the sun slides through the barn boards, it smells like dry hay and cows. At night the barn creaks and settles. Barn sounds mean safe.

Today I went farther. There is a thin crack under the big sliding barn door. I fit if I press my whiskers flat and breathe small. When I am nervous, I smooth my whiskers down with both paws and whisper, “Small is good. Small can go.” Outside is wide. Too wide. The sky feels like it forgot to stop growing, and I do not like when things forget to stop.

For one moment I almost turned back. But the wall was right there. So I ran along the barn wall, quick and low, and the wall led me to the house. The house smells different. Not hay. Not cow. Not dust. Sharp. Warm. Sweet. Inside, the floor was smooth under my paws. Too smooth. My feet slid. I slowed and stepped again, closer together.

A low hum. Not tractor. Not wind. Not cow. I moved along the wall until I reached it. A quiet box in the wall hummed. Warm air came out of a small metal mouth and brushed my whiskers. I froze and smoothed my whiskers down again. The hum did not growl. It did not chase. It did not snap. Slow. Steady. Sure.

I stayed very still, my tail flat behind me on the smooth floor. I took one step closer, then another. The warm air touched my nose, then my cheeks, then my back. I sat in front of the metal mouth. I called it the Warm Wall. The Warm Wall hummed under my paws.

Then the hum stopped. The warmth stayed on my back. I held still. The room felt wide again. I waited. I counted three quiet mouse breaths. The warmth slipped away. Then the hum came back. Slow. Steady. Sure.

I stayed where I was. Then I stepped closer. I stayed until my paws felt almost too warm. Then I ran back through the crack. The dirt outside was cool under my paws. Then the hay was cool and dusty again. The barn creaked above me. Barn sounds mean safe.

I curled into the hay stack and tucked my nose under my paw. Small is good. Small can go.