The Cast Iron Wedge

The sill was quiet. I climbed down the curtains to the floor. The front door loomed wide and shut. At its foot sat an iron wedge shaped like a sleeping hound. Thick. Solid. Cold. I squared my shoulders against its flank. Pushed with both legs. The metal bit deep into the floorboards and refused to budge. A worthy weight. I climbed atop its cold back instead. From here, the hallway remains guarded. Nothing passes.