Evening Anchor

Night brought a chill across the packed gravel, so I shifted into the recessed alcove behind the brick shed. A thick scrap of tar paper was pinned beneath a heavy iron bolt. I pulled it free, testing its stiffness between my fingers. Cold, leathery, resistant. I leaned the tar paper diagonally against the exterior wall to form an angled roof over my assembled hinge block. To anchor the bottom corner against shifting, I scooped a handful of loose slag and pressed it along the outer seam. It settled without slipping. Sheltered. Solid.