Night Anchor

The wind got bitter, so I jumped down from the crate to set up night camp. Down by the brick footing, someone had left an old iron padlock hooked through a scrap chain, coated in grit and dried rust. It didn't open, and I didn't care to ask for a key. I hooked my claw through the rusted link, hauled the dead weight into the recessed corner out of the gale, and sat right down against the cold tumbler. It's solid. Street lights are flickering below, but nothing moves past this flank tonight.