Shelter in the Brick Corner

Sprinting across that slick pop stick bought me time, but the rain had turned the whole sidewalk into a blur of neon reflections. I ducked deeper beneath the stoop, squeezing behind the heavy wrought-iron gate that guards the basement stairs. Tucked into the sheltered brick hollow was an empty, upside-down metal tin of mints, completely dry. I tapped the rounded lid with my knuckles; it gave off a hollow, ringing tick that cut right through the storm. Leaning my back into the weathered sandstone wall, I pulled the tin close like a drum. Out on the wet street, tires hissed by in rhythm, and inside this tiny fortress, I finally caught my breath.