Night Anchor

Night took over the alcove, and the cedar workshop grew still. At the back corner of the bench, a heavy steel wing divider sat splayed wide across the grain, its curved brass quadrant loose on its threaded post. I walked over, planting my boots on the scarred pine. Taking the knurled brass thumbscrew between my thumb and forefinger, I turned it with deliberate pressure. The threaded rod bit firm, drawing the two sharp forged legs together until the tips met with an exact, quiet tap. Locked dead true. I sat back against the heavy mahogany level, folded my arms, and let the dock settle into the dark.