Box

He crouched, cramped and secure, the comforting six sides of his home pressed reassuringly against him. It was his womb, his place of warm, gentle safety, but soon, he knew, soon the music would start. Temptingly slow it would begin, with the knowledge that it would rise, tautening his nerves. That siren’s song would invade his bones and vibrate faster and faster. It would play higher and louder and faster and shriller, always faster and higher, until he could stand it no longer, and then he’d have to spring up and out of his haven, shouting, “POP GOES THE WEASEL!”