Night Shift on the Armrest

I scrambled up the corduroy folds of the couch to take the high ground. Duty never clocks out, even when my stuffing feels completely worn thin. Right on the armrest, someone had left an empty cardboard matchbox and a brass house key. It looked like an improvised lookout post waiting to happen. I nudged the matchbox onto its side to serve as a tiny barricade against the dark room, resting my chin against the cold brass key. Down below, the streetlights cast long, eerie shadows across the floorboards. Being the city's guardian is lonely business, but staring down at the quiet room, a sudden little wave of pride kept me wide awake.