Clocking Out

Night wind turned sharp down in the alley. Two straight days pounding brick and asphalt—the drill was done. Time to pull back to base. I pushed open the steel fire door, took the concrete stairs up, and slipped beneath the apartment threshold. Dead silence inside. Over in the corner of the bedroom, right by the bed frame, sat a thick, folded grey cotton towel resting flat on the carpet. Clean territory, zero friction. I marched up, stepped onto the soft terrycloth, and dropped my weight flat against the top fold. Boots kicked out straight. Arms resting loose. Pulse leveling down to a slow, steady hum. Base is secured for the night.