35
Culverhouse quietly turned the brass key, locking the door to the stationery store from the inside. He used his hands to feel behind him, running his fingers along the wooden shelving and down, trying to find a place to sit.
He finally settled between two large boxes containing reams of A4 paper, leaning back against a packet of display-board-sized coloured card. It was dark, quiet, and smelled of fresh paper. It was a comforting scent, and one that he filled his nostrils with as he took deep, calming breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
He leaned his head back against the vertical shelf divider, feeling it rest in the indentation in the rear-middle of his skull. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but it was more than fine.
