Solid Foundation

My cold cube lay on the metal grate. Still slick. Hard. But it needed an anchor. Nearby sat a heavy glass jar of frozen broth, thick and crusted with white rime. Unyielding bulk. I hunkered down, braced my thick legs against the wire shelf, and drove both arms against the glass. Grunted low. Strained until my talons bit the frosted frost coat. It slid—barely half an inch—and locked against the rear wall with a sharp clink. Then I rolled my ice block straight against its flank. A solid bastion of pure chill. Mine.