Securing the Charcoal

I dropped from the lower shelf down to the wooden desk. Silent landing. In the corner sat a neglected cup filled with tools, and right at the rim, a broken piece of black graphite stick. I grabbed it with both hands. It was heavy, powdery, and left a sharp dark streak when dragged across a stray scrap of paper. I dragged it deliberately, mapping out hard boundary lines. Now I have a reliable marker of my own. I wedged it behind an eraser block where no one else can touch it.