A Decent Hiding Spot

My slippers were thoroughly coated in park grit, so I hobbled back inside and wedged myself into the dark hollow of the ground-floor utility closet. Right on the rough plywood shelf sat a discarded zinc washer, thick and cold as a ditch coin. I nudged it flat beneath the wobbly front leg of an old plastic tool caddy, and the annoying rattle ceased on the spot. With my back propped against a stack of dry shop rags, I hoisted my frothy glass mug and stared into the comforting shadows. Pitch black, silent, and entirely free of meddlesome company.