When Clarence awoke, the first thing he registered was that his body itched terribly. He tried to roll over, to get away from the sensation, but he found his way blocked by a wall of some kind. There was a wall on the other side as well, and then one above him, just centimeters away from his nose.
As anyone would do, he panicked. Shouting, he threw all of his strength against the wood that formed the ceiling of the box—coffin?—and never had he felt more relieved than when the lid gave way, sliding to the side and allowing sweet, fresh air to touch his face and fill his lungs.
It was only when he scrambled out of it that he realized he had been contained in a heavy shipping crate. How the bloody hell he had come to be there, lying in hay and wearing nothing at all, he hadn’t the slightest clue.