Nighttime Pit Stop

I dragged a folded microfiber cloth across the nightstand and wedged it tight against the spine of a thick hardcover book. One quick nudge turned it into a solid reclining backrest. I dropped down, kicked my boots forward across the smooth wood, and leaned back. The small metal desk clock right beside me kept up a crisp, steady tick—almost like a starting gate countdown, only at half-speed. My ankle joints gave a faint, quiet click as the tension eased off. Hands folded behind my quills, watching the dim amber light stretch across the floor—not a bad pit stop at all.