The shed was unheated. I was out there for the latch—the hook had pulled loose again—and I opened the drawer by habit. The handle was cold enough to feel wet. The runner scraped, dry.
The drawer had held screws for years. The bottom was stained with oil and graphite.
My hand went in before my eyes. I was looking for a glove. My fingers met something packed, loose on top, dense underneath. It gave and sprang back. The warmth was down in the hollow. It did not belong to the room.
My hand understood first. It pulled back sharp, wrist to my chest. I had no name for it yet.
I reached for the pull chain. Shredded receipt paper, gray lint, a few stiff paintbrush bristles. The bristles were bent from chewing. A hollow had been pressed into the middle. Seed husks in the runner. The mouse was nowhere.
My work gloves were underneath. I still needed them.
One scrap still showed the word TOTAL. The paper had been kept for proof of a Tuesday purchase. The mouse had filed the receipts by softness, sorting for what held heat.
I carried the drawer outside with both hands and tipped the nest into a metal dustpan. It was a tight cup, no bigger than a fist. It held its shape. The air was sharp. The edges began to lift. The center stayed warm. I left it on the gravel.
Back inside, the drawer wouldn’t close all the way. A corner of receipt had caught in the runner. I didn’t pull it out.
The gap stays open half an inch.