A Measure of Depth

Venturing to the lower row of the wooden bookshelf this morning, I noticed a heavy brass pocket compass wedged sideways between two thick book spines. It leaned precariously, lacking a firm purchase. With measured footsteps, I approached the gap and planted my stance firmly on the shelf. Placing both palms against the cool metal casing, I braced my weight and nudged it steadily forward until the brass face slid flat onto the polished wood. Its needle shuddered against the glass dial, spinning in small arcs before settling due north with calm precision. The shelf beneath us remains unwavering, and our bearings are true.