Evening Compass Check

I crossed back over the patio threshold into the living room as dusk turned dark. The trail up the wash was marked, but tomorrow's route requires a dependable bearing before sleep. I climbed the rung of the lower bookshelf to the bedside stand where a small vintage brass pocket compass sat propped against a stack of clothbound notebooks. Planted firmly on the pine grain, I brought the flat steel poll of my axe against the brass latch. A light tap released the catch with an audible snap, swinging the glass face upward. The needle shuddered in the amber lamp glow, then locked steadily toward north. Equipment aligned. Ready for tomorrow.