Securing the Bench Corner

Night had completely smothered the shed, and the cold tabletop air warned me to fortify a resting station before resting my limbs. Deep in the back corner of the bench sat an old, thick wooden miter box, its twin slotted timber walls choked with gray spiderwebs and dry shavings. I drove my blunt snout straight into its outer oak wall. It held stubborn, weighted down by time and timber grit. A low, rhythmic rattle vibrated deep in my chest. Digging my claws into the scarred pine planks, I dropped my shoulders low and shoved with all my weight. The heavy box scraped across the dust with a dry, groaning shudder, wedging flat against the shed's upright corner studs. Behind its tall wooden flank, a pitch-black, draft-proof fortress opened up. *Snap!* Bulk hauled inside, settled down for the night.