CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The survivor pressed his fingers against the moldered wood, testing the sturdiness.
It flecked away beneath his fingers. His face twisted in a sneer, and he peeled more shavings, allowing them to tumble to the cement stoop at his feet. The scent of mold also lingered on the air, the blackened wood whispering of neglect and water damage. He turned, peering up the side street towards the bakery across the street. An older woman pushed a wheeled cart, moving ever so slowly.
He waited, leaning back casually, allowing her to pass out of line of sight before returning to his work.
With his left hand, he reached into his waistband and pulled out the pry-bar he'd brought from home.
“Discarded with some old paint cans, wasn't it?” he whispered to himself, then nodded, smiling
