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Beverly

Beverly puts her head in the oven, then her forearms. She twists–they say you can fit anywhere your shoulders fit, or maybe your hips? She gets both.

The back of the oven pushes out to plaster dust and plywood. It’s dark, but she doesn’t dare flick her lighter. Her cell phone’s cold light shows her tunnels and tubes, a round red door, the silver walls of ducts. She keeps crawling.

Tips of carrots in the ceiling: she stops and pulls. Cool dirt showers her, but she holds her breath and digs. It’s not far, and it smells good up there.

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