The mouse hangs around my kitchen, wondering whether it's safe to eat the peanut butter on the two loaded-and-wound traps. I look over, see it sniffing, whiskers quivering with anticipation. I wince and look away, bracing myself for the snap and crunch, not wanting to see the dirty deed or its aftermath. Like the spring I am tightly-wound. My heart freezes for a short eternity. There is only silence. I look back over, and the mouse has not tried to eat. It has won, for now It will survive another minute.