The Crossed Laces

The boot laces provided an exact ladder. Four crossed segments of waxed cord, braced against brass eyelets. I clamped my hands onto the bottom weave and stepped up. The leather creaked once. My knee joints locked at ninety degrees to counter the slight sway. Rung by rung, the tension held. At the collar of the boot, I reached upward and caught the overhang of the bench seat. One pull cleared the lip. On the sunlit wood lay a brass key attached to a steel split ring. I nudged the flat blade upright. It balanced on its serrated teeth for two seconds before tipping against my forearm. A stable angle. I sat back against the wall.