Holding the Line

A wooden doorstop blocked the path to the hallway. It was wedged tight against the baseboard, blunt and unyielding. I stepped forward, took a measured stance, and drove both hands against its angled ridge. The rubber base gripped the floorboards, resisting every ounce of leverage. I reset my footing, dropped low, and drove through my legs. Wood scraped against oak with a sharp groan, shifting two inches to clear a straight perimeter. The corridor is open. Standard maintained.