Tucking in the Bunker

A thick coil of coarse gray wool lay dropped beside the couch leg. Dense enough to trap heat. I sank my grip into the knit ribbing and hauled it backward, inch by inch, into the shadowed gap beneath the sofa frame. Dust stirred, then settled. I wedged the heavy wool tight against the iron doorstop I dragged in earlier. The perimeter holds. Wind cannot reach here. I leaned my full weight into the woven folds and let my joints ease. Silence. The bunker is secured for the night.