Each night I climb the stairs and crawl into bed beneath the slanted ceiling of the attic-less second floor. As I begin to drift, I hear the scutter-scurry of its nightly ritual. Like tiny fingerless hands and toeless feet fruitlessly trying to anchor themselves, it slides and skitters its way from the peak of the ceiling to within inches of my head. I hold my breath and quiet my beating heart. Again, it scurry-scutters this way or that, and I imagine I hear it speaking softly to itself. If it moves again, how will I keep the buried scream behind my white tight lips?
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