Holding the Gate

My boots were clean, but night demands an immovable anchor. Down near the hearth stood a heavy cast-iron fireplace mesh screen, tilted crooked where its arched brass handle had snagged on the masonry grout. Unsteady iron in my sightline doesn't fly. I unslung my championship belt, laying the thick leather strap flat across the dry hearthstone so the title plate faced out clear. Planting my boots deep into the floorboard grain, I dropped into a centered stance, locked both gloved hands around the cold, textured iron mesh, and shoved through my hips. It grated against the brick with a sharp rasp, dropping dead flush into the stone groove. I crossed my arms, leaned against the dark grille, and locked down the room.