The cobblestones are cold. Grapetto shakes at the open door, feet tapping the stone. That step up there looks impossibly high.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. His feet drum the stone, and the step just sits there — high, and far, and unclimbable.
He jumps. Plop. Jumps again. Plop. Third time — plop. Back on the cobblestones, thumping bottom and all.
He crouches low and squints through the thin gap under the door. Snick. Snick. A crayon keeps snapping in there.
Flatten. Wiggle. Slide. Squeak — pop — in he goes. The tile floor meets him, cool and smooth.
Chairs scrape. Papers flutter. A little drum goes BANG-bang-bang. On the tile floor, a tiny dot. No one's looking.
A girl in a yellow dress looks down and pats the empty seat beside her. "Here. This is yours."
The shaking stops. Golden light pours across the desk and catches his skin. He leans against her arm, and the room hums.
