A Matter of Minutes

My morning round began precisely at eight fifteen. Down upon the carpet beside the toy depot, I noticed that an errant silver pocket watch lay propped at a slant against a wooden signal post, ticking with audible irregularity. A crooked timepiece is an affront to any orderly timetable. Moving deliberately forward, I braced my flat wooden base against its rounded metal bezel, nudging it millimeter by millimeter until the face stood perpendicular to the mainline. The second hand sweeps in proper cadence now, ensuring operations run strictly to schedule.