A story by Bird Ale
“Angie!”
Timora screamed her sister’s name in the loudest squeak her tiny lungs could manage.
Her claws gripped the smooth metal side of the largest, tallest trash bin she had ever encountered in all her mouse years. The metal was painfully cold beneath her paws, sending a shiver through her entire body and raising every strand of fur along her back.
She had always known that metal was no friend in extreme heat or bitter cold. That was one of the first things they taught young mice.
But necessity had a strange way of making you ignore everything you were afraid of.
“I’m okay, Tim.”
Little Angie’s squeaky voice floated up from somewhere deep inside the enormous bin.
Timora closed her eyes in relief.
Normally, she hated it when Angie shortened her name to Tim. It sounded like a boy’s name to her. She had corrected her sister at least a hundred times.
My name is Timora. Ti-mo-ra.
Tonight, she didn’t care.
Angie could call her Timothy if she wanted, as long as she was alive.
Still, something about her sister’s voice troubled her. It was shaky and unusually low. Timora could almost feel the tremble running through every syllable.
Angie was trying to reassure her.
Unfortunately, she was doing exactly the opposite.
Timora curled one of her thin little fingers and tapped it against the freezing metal.
Nothing.
She tried again, harder.
Still nothing.
So she used one of her claws instead.
Scratch.
Once.
Scratch.
Twice.
Scratch.
Three times.
Their secret signal.
They had invented it when they were younger—a way of saying, It’s me. I’m here. You’re not alone.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Angie.”
Timora leaned forward and pressed her lips against the side of the bin so her little sister could hear her.
That was a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
The winter breeze was already vicious that night, sweeping through the alley as though it had somewhere important to be. The metal bin had become so cold that the instant Timora tried to pull away—
Her lips didn’t move.
Her eyes widened.
She tugged backward.
Nothing.
Her lips were stuck to the bin.
Timora’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“Mmmph!”
She pulled harder.
Nothing.
“MMPH!”
“Tim?”
Angie’s voice floated up from inside the bin.
“Are… are you okay?”
Timora could hardly blame her for asking. By now she was clawing, kicking, twisting, and making far more noise than any sensible mouse should make in an alley behind Delores Restaurant and Bar.
She only hoped the cold would keep every alley cat in the neighbourhood tucked away somewhere warm.
Then—
VROOOOM!
Timora froze.
VROOOOOOOOM!
A motorcycle.
Fear did what strength could not.
With one desperate jerk, Timora ripped herself free from the bin.
“Ow!”
There was no time to inspect the damage.
She leaped to the ground and scurried toward the nearest hiding place just as the motorcycle’s headlamp flooded the alley with light.
Timora squeezed herself behind a stack of old crates and held her breath.
Fear, she decided, was sometimes a very useful companion.
Especially when it made your legs move that fast.
From her hiding place, she peeked through a narrow opening.
A human stood beside the motorcycle.
He was adjusting the strange second head humans seemed to put on whenever they rode machines like that.
A helmet.
Timora knew what it was called, but the second head made much more sense to her.
She scanned the alley carefully.
No one else appeared to be around.
The man seemed to have come from the restaurant, although Timora found it strange that he had parked his motorcycle in such a dark part of the alley.
Then she noticed something else.
A huge sack lay on the ground beside him.
The man bent over and tried to lift it.
He failed.
He adjusted his grip and tried again.
Still nothing.
On the third attempt, he finally managed to haul the sack upward. He struggled with it for a moment before securing it on the motorcycle.
Then the engine roared again.
“Tim?”
Timora’s heart dropped.
“Tim… are you there?”
Angie’s frightened squeak came from inside the trash bin.
Too loudly.
Timora wanted to scream at her to be quiet, but she couldn’t risk making another sound.
She understood why Angie was afraid.
She was afraid too.
But Angie could not afford to let anyone know she was trapped inside that bin.
The workers at Delores Restaurant and Bar had never been kind to mice.
In fact, unkind was far too gentle a word.
They were constantly inventing new ways to keep mice away from the restaurant—and, whenever possible, to silence them permanently.
Timora’s family knew that better than most.
They had lost Aunt Yama because of this very restaurant several years ago.
Timora could still remember it as though it had happened yesterday.
Angie hadn’t even been born then.
Aunt Yama had gone out searching for dinner because her husband was working late in the fields. She had returned home with plenty of food.
Her husband didn’t come back that night.
So Aunt Yama ate.
And ate.
And ate.
By morning, when Uncle Nido finally returned home from the fields, he found his wife lying still.
Her body was swollen.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Poison.
Mouse school taught them how to inspect food. Smell it. Study it. Look for strange powders, unfamiliar liquids, and unusual markings.
Aunt Yama knew all those things.
Unfortunately, Aunt Yama also loved food.
Very much.
Perhaps too much.
Whenever she was hungry, caution tended to disappear somewhere between her nose and her stomach.
Timora sometimes imagined that if Aunt Yama had been trapped inside this trash bin instead of Angie, rescuing her would have been considerably more difficult.
Aunt Yama would probably have shouted, “Take your time!” There’s enough dinner in here to last me until spring!
Despite herself, Timora almost smiled.
Almost.
The motorcycle roared louder.
The rider sped away so quickly that the rush of air swept another icy blast across Timora’s already freezing body.
Then the alley became dark again.
Timora didn’t waste a second.
She shot from behind the crates and raced back to the trash bin.
Scratch.
Once.
Scratch.
Twice.
Scratch.
Three times.
“I’m fine, Angie.”
This time, she kept her lips well away from the metal.
“I’m scared, Tim.”
“I know.”
Timora hated admitting it.
She wanted to tell her little sister there was nothing to fear.
She wanted to say everything was under control.
She wanted to sound like Mom.
Or Dad.
Or any grown mouse who always seemed to know exactly what to do.
But Timora was scared too.
Terrified, actually.
Angie could not remain inside that bin until morning.
When the restaurant workers arrived, they might find her.
And if they didn’t—
The garbage truck would.
Timora shuddered.
Everyone knew about the garbage truck.
It showed mercy to nothing.
Bags.
Boxes.
Bones.
Food.
Anything thrown inside disappeared beneath its enormous crushing teeth.
Timora immediately pushed the image out of her mind.
No.
She would not let that happen.
Why hadn’t Angie listened?
Mom had told her to stay home.
Timora had told her to stay home.
But Angie always wanted to prove she was just as brave, just as strong, and just as useful as her older sister.
“If two mice go,” Angie had argued, “we can carry twice as much food.”
Mom had been unable to leave because she had just given birth to a new litter of babies. Their father was away working in the fields.
That left Timora responsible for finding food for the family.
And Angie had insisted on coming.
If only she had listened.
If only Timora had forced her to stay behind.
But if only it weren’t going to get Angie out of the trash bin.
“I’ll go find help,” Timora said at last.
Silence.
Then—
“But I’m scared!”
Angie’s voice cracked.
Timora’s heart broke a little.
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to leave you either.”
“Then don’t.”
Timora swallowed.
For one brief moment, she considered staying.
Maybe she could climb into the bin herself.
Maybe she could find something for Angie to stand on.
Maybe she could somehow—
No.
She had already tried everything she could think of.
She needed help.
“I have no choice, Angie. I have to find someone who can get you out.”
A tiny sob came from inside.
“Listen to me,” Timora whispered. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t climb anything. Don’t touch anything you don’t recognize. And most importantly, no squeaking. Not even a tiny one. Okay?”
Angie sniffled.
“Okay.”
Timora placed one paw against the side of the bin.
She imagined Angie placing hers against the other side.
There was cold metal between them, along with several inches of darkness, rubbish, and fear.
Still, somehow, Timora hoped her sister could feel her there.
“I promise I’ll come back.”
The words escaped before Timora fully understood their weight.
She had made promises before.
Promises to share food.
Promises not to tell Mom who had broken the acorn bowl.
Promises to let Angie sleep beside her when thunder came.
But never a promise like this.
This one frightened her because she had absolutely no idea whether she could keep it.
Still, she whispered again,
“I promise.”
Timora slowly backed away from the bin.
Then she turned toward the road that ran behind the restaurant.
That road eventually led to the fields where her father worked.
She had never gone to the fields alone before.
In fact, she wasn’t completely sure how to get there.
But somewhere out there was her father.
And her father would know what to do.
He always did.
Timora took off.
She ran as quietly as she could, keeping close to walls, slipping beneath discarded boxes and darting through the darkest corners of the alley.
One window.
Two.
Three.
Four.
She had just passed the fourth window of Delores Restaurant and Bar when she heard something.
Timora stopped.
Her ears lifted.
Nothing.
She waited.
The restaurant stood completely dark.
Every light had been switched off.
The doors were locked.
No customers.
No workers.
Nothing moved.
Timora lowered herself back onto all four paws.
She must have imagined it.
She started running again.
“Help me!”
Timora stopped so suddenly that her back paws nearly overtook her front ones.
Her heart thumped.
She slowly looked toward the restaurant.
Silence.
She swallowed.
No.
She had a mission.
Angie needed her.
Whatever was happening inside that building was none of her concern.
Timora hurried forward.
“Help! Please!”
She froze again.
There it was.
A voice.
A human voice.
Coming from inside the restaurant.
Timora stared at the dark window.
She was wasting time.
Every second she stood there was another second Angie remained trapped inside the bin.
Keep moving.
She took another step.
“Someone… Please help me!”
Timora squeezed her eyes shut.
Why did trouble always seem to find you when you were already carrying enough of your own?
She turned back toward the window.
How could whoever was inside possibly know she was there?
Had they heard her running?
Impossible.
She was a mouse.
A very small mouse.
What help could she possibly offer a human?
Then another thought entered her mind.
What if it’s a trap?
Timora’s ears flattened.
Delores Restaurant had traps everywhere.
Mouse traps.
Poison traps.
Sticky traps.
Things that looked like food but absolutely were not food.
Perhaps humans had traps that called for help too.
That seemed terribly unfair.
Yet before common sense could stop her, curiosity took control.
Timora scampered up a drainpipe beside the restaurant wall and carefully climbed toward the window.
She reached the ledge and crouched beneath it.
Her nose twitched.
She sniffed once.
Twice.
Humans.
Definitely human.
Timora edged closer to the glass.
At first, she could see almost nothing.
The restaurant was pitch-black.
Then her eyes adjusted.
Tables.
Chairs.
The counter.
Something lying on the floor.
And farther inside—
Timora stopped breathing.
Someone was sitting in a chair.
No.
Not sitting.
Tied to a chair.
Timora crept closer to the glass.
The figure struggled.
Ropes wrapped around the person’s arms and chest.
Then the head lifted.
Straight toward the window.
“Help me!”
Timora stumbled backward.
Every strand of fur on her tiny body stood on end.
She had left Angie to find help.
Instead—
She had found someone else who needed rescuing.
Timora shuddered…
To be continued.