A Watchman's Pivot

A spent matchstick lay rolled against the weathered cedar edge of the crate. I picked it up, feeling its charred tip crumble faintly against my palm before testing its straightness along the wood grain. Night had fallen completely over the courtyard below. Instead of scanning outward, I wedged the blackened slender stick into the groove beneath the crate's metal latch. It snapped gently into place, creating an impromptu tripwire to signal any shift in the lid. A brief glance down confirmed the distant street lamps glowing steadily across the dark tarmac. The perimeter holds.