Inside the box of stale breakfast cereal, at the very bottom (deeper even than the benthic crumbles of a complete breakfast), under the left cardboard flap lived a little bug.

The little bug was used to the earthquakes that would shake his home at approximately 8 am every morning, and they happened with such regularity that he would make sure to put his laundry in on time to save on all the electricity that would have gone into agitating the load.

Sometimes the moths from the oatmeal bag nextdoor would stop in. Flighty creatures, there was no routine to them, and it upset the little bug to have them dropping in with no reasonable warning. The little bug would have just pretended he wasn’t at home if it wasn’t for the brown moth.

She had wings dusted with silver and black, smelled of oats, and she always had something appreciative to say of whatever snack he had hastily put in front of them.

The black moth, on the other hand… well, one could only be polite for so long before something had to be done.