I set the box on the shelf, watched it click into place, aligning with the others: rows upon rows of boxes, identical, never changing.
The conveyor belt carried them up and away. Who knows where they are all going. All I know is that this is my home. The place where I'm safe. The place I belong.

The quail and whippoorwill went their separate ways. They fled the storm, diverging in opposing directions. Packed a suitcase and flew away, never to be seen again.

Don't get caught in the storm, she told me. But how can I get caught when I am in the center of it all?