Little embers fall from the roaster to the floor. A clump of chaff ignites and dies on the cement.
A lingering smell of smoke fills the air. The tray under the drum has got an ember in it, too. I spray water into the tray. It hisses and steams against the hot metal, melting the fire and dampening the smoke.
"I should reposition the drum." I think.
The crescent wrench is the size of my head. Its got "P-90" cut into it.
"90 kilo Probat? Yes, that's what that means."