Mapping the Night

I squeezed back through the garden fence and slipped inside through the screen flap. The living room was quiet and dim. Kimchi and Lumpia were curled together near the armchair, but the woven blanket had slipped down off Lumpia's shoulder. I stepped across the oak floorboards deliberately, gathered the heavy wool fringe in both paws, and drew it up to his chin until he was thoroughly covered. Kneeling by the bronze bookend, I eased Papa's brown paper chart open. With the red carpenter's pencil, I carefully sketched two round wheels past the alley gate line. The bike is officially documented. I wedged myself snugly between my brothers, resting my arm over Kimchi's side. All is secure.