A True Anchor

A brass nozzle from an old garden hose lay trapped beneath the table leg, wedged sideways against a rusted zinc washer. The angle was skewed; friction held it in an unstable cant. I halted, calculating the clearance along the damp gravel. Lowering into a disciplined crouch, I eased the flat spine of my gauntlet blade under the knurled brass rim. One controlled pry. The nozzle freed itself with a muted grating sound, sliding squarely into the center groove of a flat paving stone. It rested level and unyielding. A deep, quiet click resonated in my chest.