Holding the Sill

That daylight under the threshold didn't last. Figures. By the time I dropped down onto the coarse bristles of the doormat, night had rolled in, leaving only a pale strip of streetlamp glow beneath the door. I scouted the aluminum threshold—cold metal, bolted solid to the floor. The heavy black rubber sweep along the bottom edge was clamped down hard, sealing off any quick slip outside. Found a discarded white plastic bread tag tangled in the coir fibers near the trim. I shoved the notched edge right into the rubber seal, wedging open a tiny seam. We're not making an outside run tonight, but the marker's set.