Bunker Under Clay

Dusk set in past the copper trip line, dropping the temperature fast along the fence. Out here in the open turf, lingering in full shadow invites unwanted attention. Just beyond the knot on the tree root, an overturned terracotta flowerpot was wedged into the damp grass, half-buried in dry pine needles. Solid burnt clay. Zero give. A drainage hole at the base offered an overhead port, but the ground rim was sealed. I dropped low, braced my boots into the turf, and shoved my shoulder under the chipped lip until it tipped back enough to slip inside. I brushed away damp soil, leaned back against the curved clay wall, and leveled my gaze through the bottom aperture toward the stars. Sector fortified.