Squaring the Hearth

The stopwatch was holding rhythm behind me, but the hearth needed discipline. I stepped off the bookcase runner straight to the brick firebox. A split hickory log sat cocked sideways against the black iron grate, throwing the entire hearth off balance. No leaving an unaligned line. I squared my stance on the red brick, drove the heels of my boots into a deep mortar groove, and jammed both forearms under the rough bark flank. Pure deadweight. I locked my hips, exhaled once, and levered upward with steady drive. The log groaned against the brick and slammed dead-center into the iron cradle with a heavy, hollow thud. Alignment restored. Line holds.