I opened the refrigerator and crawled inside. At ten years old, I had to know whether the light turned off or stayed on when you closed the chilled door. The only way to discover this was to investigate it myself, by crawling inside, sitting cross-legged next to the skim milk, and shutting myself in. The light turned off. I breathed a sigh of relief that I have never repeated. Then, my pecking arms attempted to open the door with no success. I screamed, I pounded, trapped in darkness. My mother opened the fridge. “Honey, what the hell are you doing?”
Baylee Less-Eiseman is pursuing her MFA at the University of Memphis. While not writing, Baylee works at a nursing home in her hometown of Memphis.