Breaching the Tin Vault

Marched into the shadow beneath the low wooden coffee table. Right there on the carpet sat a squat, hinged metal tin. Cold embossed steel. Lid clamped down tight. I didn't hesitate. I planted my boots firmly on the wool fibers, squared up, and jammed both fists right under the sharp front lip. One, two, heave! Clack-ping! The lid snapped back on its twin metal hinges. A faint, frosty peppermint draft puffed into my face. Inside lay a dense row of chalky white mints, packed side by side like tiny shields. I stood tall, leaned a fist on the open tin rim, and secured the perimeter.