They waited, umbrellas up, for the falling mattresses. The mattresses never came, but still they waited, umbrellas in hand, eyes downcast, ready for the crushing defeat of feathered comfort upon the staunch defense of nylon and metal. The spines of the umbrellas extended just a little too far, the nylon ever so slightly frayed, such that the umbrellas were clearly useless for actual rain. The people themselves had a look of nervous terror, as one who awaits the final return of the killer in a murder mystery, knowing that they’ll come back for one more go, but never quite sure when. They had ever-shifting eyes, jittery walks, and lived with the knowledge that soon, at any moment, they could be crushed to death so that others could sleep in comfort, and the world could rest a little easier.