A Crack at the Horizon

Enough vibrating the floorboards indoors. I turned my back on the electric hum and marched across the living room carpet toward a slit of sharp morning light spilling beneath the patio door curtain. Blocked right in front of me sat a heavy brass owl doorstop, guarding a gap just wide enough for an escape. I lunged forward, grabbed one cold, cast-metal wing, and shoved with all my strength. With a harsh screech against the hardwood trim, it slid aside by two inches. A burst of cool autumn air hit my face, smelling of damp brick and diesel. Birmingham is out there, and this room just got too small.