The Leather Bunker

That draft cutting under the front door was relentless, and I wasn't about to spend the night shivering on the floorboards. I hauled myself up the carved leg of the hallway bench, where someone had tossed a heavy brown leather work glove. The hide was stiff and cold, but the fleece interior looked like an impenetrable bunker. I planted my boots on the oak plank, grabbed the thick cuff with both hands, and threw my weight backward until the rigid leather groaned open. Wedging my guitar safely against the bench wall, I ducked straight inside the cuff. Backed against that dense shearling lining, the draft didn't stand a chance.