A Quiet Tin of Bolts

The shed grew very dark, so I looked for a snug hollow to settle down. On the bottom shelf of the workbench, an old wooden tray held a cluster of heavy iron bolts. I climbed over the splintered pine rim and tucked down between two rusty washers. In the middle lay an unpainted steel nut, smooth and cold. I reached out and gently pushed it with both paws. It rolled half an inch, making a dull, comforting clink against a long bolt. The iron smell felt sturdy and safe. I rested my chin against the side of the wooden tray, listening to the wind outside.