And it was cold now. He had a system worked out most nights. First, he dug a pit. Like a literal pit, half a foot deep at least, then filled it with leaves, twigs, flammable material, and work up the nerve to light something on fire on top of his hammer, carefully lift it over and dump it into the pit, let it to catch light, take a few steps away, and wait for his heart to stop pounding. Then he’d pile on the heavier stuff for fire fuel once it had time to breathe. Handy used a stolen bedsheet for a makeshift shelter above him to keep the heat from escaping straight up, making sure it always had to pass by a shivering and unhappy Handy before it escaped into the night air.