Bommel sits on the wooden bed, his legs dangling over the edge. The blue space jacket lies on the colorful cushion in front of him. He pushes it aside with his paw – scrape, scrape, scrape.
"No, no, no!" He burrows under the cushions. Everything turns soft and warm.
Bommel stretches out his paw and touches the soft mask. One touch – a single breath. Then he rips it away.
The mask wobbles on its little strap, back and forth, back and forth. Bommel buries his face in the little fabric plushie. It smells of cotton and sunshine.
The wobbly button eye stares at him. Bommel sneezes – "PFFT!" – and the burst of air flings the mask up. It gapes open like a little blue mouth.
Bommel lifts the mask, the plushie clutched tight to his chest. He sniffs – cotton, warm and old. A breath. Slowly. The mask fogs up.
One. Two. Three breaths. The mask fogs, clears, fogs. Bommel sinks into the cushions. The wooden bed creaks softly.
In the evening. Bommel reaches for it himself, pulls the mask over his nose, chin resting on the plushie. "Mmm." The room smells of lavender. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
