Night Quarters in the Brass Drum

That ricocheting marble gave me a much better idea than staying exposed on the floor mat. Night fell, and the steady downpour turned the street completely pitch black. I hauled myself straight up the scrolled lip of that tall brass umbrella stand by gripping the etched rim. Down inside, resting right on the dry curved bottom, someone had left a folded, clean white cotton handkerchief. Perfect bunk. I slid down the slick interior wall, kicked off the chill, and bundled the soft fabric around my shoulders like an oversized sleeping bag. The heavy brass muffles the street rain into a low, rhythmic hum. Good luck finding me in here.