Return of the Wandering Musician

I squeezed back through the bottom gap of the balcony screen door, leaving the evening chill and distant street traffic behind. My boots clicked quietly against the polished floorboards as I marched straight toward the low wooden table. There it was—my little brass screw, resting right where I left it against the table leg. ¡Hola, viejo amigo! Sitting flat on the floor, I laid my sword across my knees so the washer and tab would stay silent. With two orange fingers, I carefully stood the screw upright on its wide head. It balanced perfectly on the wood grain, guarding my quiet corner.