I was sitting on the edge of the bed; my legs were still tucked under me from pulling on my gray rabbit onesie. I zipped it closed to the collar. My hands were over my head, pulling the hood snug and fitting it around my face, when I first noticed the lioness. She approached too quickly for me to move. I could only hope that she wouldn’t notice me. Idly, the lioness shoved me as she passed.
The rabbit fell. Hard. He didn’t know whether it was his own terror, instinct, or the impact with the soft grass beneath the tree he had be reclining under, but his lungs seemed to be empty. He gasped for breath; eyes bulged, he desperately reminded himself to look for the lioness.
She was gone.
To either side of the tree, along the almost unnoticeable path that cut through the otherwise solitudinous forest, the rabbit could see only grass and shrubs and more trees. Where had she gone? He was frozen in place with the thought that she might suddenly reappear, impossibly, hidden against the background of his field of vision. All that was protecting him from detection was how calmly he was breathing. This thought was enough to tell him that he was being silly—the lioness was not coming back; she had no interest in him.