Tulip had been watching the human in the meadow for two days before she made her mistake. He was a botanical illustrator on a fieldwork trip, crouched low in the grass photographing things at ground level, and she had gotten too close out of pure curiosity — his equipment was strange and interesting and he moved through the forest with a carefulness that most humans didn’t bother with. When his bag tipped over and the opening yawned wide in front of her she was already close enough that when he reached for it she had nowhere to go but in. She pressed herself flat against the interior lining in the dark and waited, Fig a solid warm mass beside her taking up most of the available floor space, and listened to the zipper close.