A Slag of Sealing Wax

Night brought clear chill down through the birch grove. I backed away from the grease nozzle and crawled low toward the chiminea bricks. Deliberate. Deep shade waited inside the cast-iron draft belly. Resting in the cold soot was an abandoned stub of red sealing wax, melted into an irregular knob against a broken iron latch. I did not hesitate. One slow, unyielding downward press of my broad skull. The chilled wax resisted with a firm crunch, fracturing slightly before gripping the underside of my teeth in a stiff, waxy clamp. A dry moth fluttered against the soot pipe. I did not flinch. Forelimbs planted wide in the dust. The ground holds firm.