Trent slid down the mirrored wall of the elevator, and crash-landed on the filthy carpet. He clutched the bowl of cranberry sauce to his chest like a lifeline and closed his eyes. This could not be happening. He was already late for the Thanksgiving dinner he didn’t want to attend, and now the elevator jammed, imprisoning him with a stranger dressed in a fuzzy Grinch onesie.

“You okay?” the girl asked.

She was beside him now, a pie nestled in her lap, while she pointed at his chest.

“Hope the lid is tight or you’ll stain your sweater.” 

He put the bowl on the floor, considered the number of filthy shoes that dragged mud and unmentionable gunk inside, and picked it back up. 

“I don’t do small spaces,” he said through gritted teeth.

“At least you won’t have to listen to your family argue over politics or how the stuffing is dry. Betcha my mother is lecturing Aunt Marge right now.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry—” she thrust out a hand — “Beth. You are?”

Anxious. Late for dinner. “Trent.”

“I take it your family doesn’t squabble while feasting?”

He tugged at his collar. The air was thick and stuffy, perfumes layered over warm apple pie. “Last year, Grandpa hurled dinner rolls, one at a time, at Uncle Mac. Mom shouted. I moved to the kids’ table.”

Beth cackled. “How was it?”

“Sticky, but fun.”

 She held up the dessert. “Want some?” 

His stomach rumbled, and she passed him a fork. 

Word: cranberry | action: trapped