You're going to have to trust me on this: he is laying in a box.
In the fall, I ordered a bottle of perfume from Amazon. Isabel fell in love with the tiny box it came in. She does not fit into it. Her rolls hang over the side. Her neck juts out. She cannot possibly be comfortable. And yet.
And yet. Indeed.
The really silly thing about this box he is laying is that it is six feet from the tower, right next to a bag, and eight feet from a box in which he fits.
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