Under the Nylon Dome

I slid down from the umbrella's steep curve and ducked straight underneath its taut nylon arch. Down on the wooden slats of the bench, the broad fabric canopy formed a private pavilion, completely blocking stray drafts from the hallway. I laid my golden staff flat across the grain so it wouldn't roll, then tucked that heavy brass coat-check token into the elastic wrist loop on the umbrella’s rubberized handle. The band snapped snug around the metal with a firm, muted tug. Propping my shoulders against the central steel shaft, I settled in under my own roof. A fortified anchorage makes for an easy night.