Alfred hated math. It had nothing to do with the difficulty of the problems. Oh, he was fine with a challenge, practically dared the equations to make him flinch. But the paper just sat there on his desk, lifeless as usual. He found it strange how the oak of the ancient desk his grandfather made was cut from the same life the paper was. And so was his pencil. It was all wood, alive but dead.

No, focus! Wood and trees and paper don't matter.

If he could just stay focused, Alfred could make the numbers dance into a soft whirlwind of numbers and broken letters until they settled like autumn leaves on the ground. The problem was that he just didn't like looking at them. The sevens looked like angry cobras that nipped at the soft heads of the baby "a"s, and the "x"s were odd contortionists that frightened the square roots away. Even when he solved them, the original problem remained, stuck still in its dark black ink. Alfred didn't like how the problems clashed and yelled at each-other sometimes. He wished they would be silent, silent, silent. Just for a moment. Just a break. Just a short nap! Five minutes he told himself. Only five. Five, that looked like a hammock fashioned from the seams of the moon and held by the stitches of stars. Just five minutes.

Alfred peeled his legs away from the sticky leather of the desk chair. With sock covered feet he tiptoed on more wood, the wood of the floor, to the edge of a fluffed bed. His golden retriever, Emet, was already waiting in the center of the blankets.

'Pap, pap, pap' went his tail, almost like an invitation. Alfred nudged the happy dog aside so he could have some space.

Five minutes. Five minutes in a hanging moon hammock.

When Alfred's face hit the blankets, he felt himself sink deep into their lukewarm depths. He liked the way the blanket felt pressed against his face, pushing the cool glass of his glasses against his eyelids. It must have been perfect timing because his space heater (his parents insisted it would save money) softly puffed to awake. It made the floorboards sigh, probably equally as grateful for the heat on their grained faces as Alfred was for its comforting sound. Squirrel chitters and bird chirps outside the window accompanied the steady thrum into a comforting living static. Emet, glad to have a partner in his daytime sleep adventure, circled twice before flopping onto Alfred's back. With Emet the living blanket on him, Alfred finally felt comfortable enough to close his eyes.

And then the door slammed open.

'Bam!' it went, and with it, the birds, squirrels, and Emet all scurried off. The heater too shyly hushed itself. It hadn't even been five minutes.

From the click, click, of heels, Alfred knew the unannounced intruder was his mother. What a pain for the wood, he had thought when he was younger. Nowadays he just wished heels didn't like to hear themselves so much.

"Alfred, what are you doing? Your grades have been terrible, and here you are. Napping. In the middle of the day!" Alfred didn't lift his head. It hadn't been five minutes. "Alfred," her voice warned. "If you don't get up right now you're grounded, young man."

Alfred still had five seconds.

"No video games, no internet, not until your grades are better and you prove to me I can trust you."

Five minutes up. Alfred looked up, feeling every little particle from the blankets tug at his skin, almost asking him to lay back down. "Mom...it was only five minutes."

Alfred's mother rolled her eyes, muttering a small 'I've heard that a million times' under her breath. "Alfred, you and I both know it was longer than that." But it couldn't be. Alfred had counted.

"But mom-"

"No, Alfred. Now please study, honey." Alfred lay still while his mother's heels clicked until they were inaudible. Emet decided it was time for him to jump back up onto the bed.

He was sure he had counted right… Pushing himself up and pushing off a whining Emet, Alfred paced as quietly as he could. There were sixty seconds in a minute. Sixty seconds times the five minutes he wanted was the same as sixty-five times. Two sixties was 120. Two 120's or four sixties was 240. So that left one more sixty. That was 300. He had counted to 295 when his mother entered. 300 minus 295 was-squirrel?

No, the math would have meant five. But Alfred was transfixed on the twitching tail and sniffling nose of a deep brown squirrel sitting on his desk. Alfred dared a glance at Emet, praying that he hadn't seen it too. Luckily Emet seemed more interested in rolling and twisting his back around on the bed. With that crisis averted, he edged closer to the squirrel with one hand out. Alfred hoped it would see him as peaceful, that he wanted nothing but the papers it was sitting on. Maybe this squirrel could even be a new friend?

Just as Alfred came within centimeters of a paper corner, the squirrel snatched up the pages and stuffed them into its cheeks. It sat for a moment while Alfred stared at it in shock. After making a small 'chit chit' and swishing its tail, it scrambled past Alfred and across the floor. Alfred stumbled after it in desperation, socks almost slipping on the smooth face of the wood floor.

The squirrel darted all over the room, knocking over football and soccer trophies, ripping posters and scratching paint. Finally, with one last flourish of fur, it jumped out the window. Alfred glared as it landed comfortably on a branch and bounced, once, twice, thrice, before running away from the crime scene.

In his astonished anger, Alfred forgot to listen to the rude intrusion of high-heeled clicks.

"Alfred, what the hell did you do to your room?!" His mother's face was a mixture of silent rage and exasperated disappointment. He jolted and slowly faced her, emotions running across his face just as quickly as the squirrel ran across his room.

"But mom, there was a-and then it-it's not my fault."

Her eyes narrowed and a single strand of strawberry blonde hair slipped out of the impeccable bun sitting atop her head. "Grounded. Two months. No excuses. Clean this mess up." She waltzed out of the room, hands pressed to her temples, leaving Alfred alone once again.

The space heater creaked alive, almost confused as to why the room looked the way it did. Alfred closed his eyes, slowing his breathing, and counted to five minutes. Five minutes of no squirrels, five minutes of quiet, five minutes of peace.

Emet in the meantime, whimpered gently on the bed.