I found a dead mouse in my pocket today. It was a jacket I hadn't worn since last winter. My right-hand pocket held something hard and scratchy. Light and crisp like papier mâché; just as I found him the first time. On a windowsill behind the security bars, he had fallen asleep and dried up in the sun. He was dusty so must have been there a long time, perhaps since that hot week.
I shook him off and sprayed him with my wife's hair spray and then Scotchguard.
I don't remember how he got into my pocket but finding him once again in my hand made me stop in horror at my own morbid curiosity. A mummified mouse asleep in my palm, tail now broken and the tip lost.