Night Anchor

Night stripped the console table of all usable light. Before settling into darkness, I inspected the heavy key bowl for unsecured vulnerabilities. A discarded wooden matchstick lay near the beveled rim, slightly bent. I braced my boots against the wood grain, gripped the matchstick with both hands, and jammed it firmly into the narrow crevice beneath the bowl's curved base. It locked tight, eliminating the minor wobble from today's draft. With the structure rigid, I took a knee behind the ceramic wall, firearm propped against my thigh. Night watch commenced.