Bobby rolled in the blanket without opening his eyes. His feet were still warm, and his head didn’t ache too much. Not the way he’d expected. He was thankful he’d chosen an older bridge. The old ones never let him down.
He’d heard the north wind come rooting through the night, probing his corner of Pennsylvania. But it hadn’t reached him where he lay, wrapped among the ancient girders. Nor had the sound of traffic overhead. The rumble that usually woke him at dawn. He’d picked his bridge well. Not merely old, but derelict. In matters of the road, Bobby always knew what was best . . . .