A Clean Fold

I pushed past the rubber sweep beneath the side door to get out of the night wind. The aisles were black except for the green exit glow. Down in aisle three, something pale stuck out into the walking lane. A yellow wooden folding ruler. Someone had left the first six-inch leaf pivoted open at a sharp forty-five-degree angle, just waiting for a boot to snap the brass hinge clean off. Sloppy handling. I hopped onto the lower shelf bracket, got both hands around the birch slat, and swung it inward. The brass joint gave a dry, firm click and seated flush against the stack. Everything squared away. Now I can sleep without thinking about it.