By evening in Felt Presence, the skeletons had made the teacup a matchbox bed.

Its handle stuck out.

“An armhole,” said one skeleton, and adjusted the blanket.

The ceramic pumpkin watched from the ribbon shelf.

“I might like one of those.”

“A bed?”

“A blanket. With ordinary holes.”

They knitted him a small orange one.

Later, the moth found him asleep on a saucer beside the matchbox.

In his notebook he wrote: PUMPKIN HAS ACQUIRED A PATIO.

The thimble desk leaned over to read.

“No door,” it observed.

The moth added: ACCESS INFORMAL.

Under his blanket, the pumpkin gave a tiny, contented clink.