My human enters the small moving room, and the doors close it inside like a trap it walked into willingly.
I would never. A box that seals itself, that hums and drops the floor out from under you, that carries you somewhere you did not walk to on your own legs. The one time I was placed inside it, against every objection I made known with my whole body, the walls swallowed us and my stomach rose into my throat and I understood, finally, that my human cannot be trusted with our safety.
But it goes in every morning. Steps between the doors, turns to face them, and waits. Stares at the seam where they meet as if something wonderful might arrive. Nothing wonderful arrives. Only more humans, who also turn to face the doors, who also stare, who also decline to look at one another, packed together warm and breathing and pretending to be alone.
It presses a small lit circle before it enters. It believes the circle summons the room. The room comes when it comes. The circle is a comfort, like the way it presses my chin when it wants to feel useful.
When my human returns from wherever the box delivers it, it smells of many strangers and none of me. This is unacceptable.
So I wait by the door it will open, and the moment it kneels to greet me, arms out, that transparent need all over its face, I walk past it to the window and sit with my back turned.
Let it learn what the box already knows.
Some doors close on purpose.