Nighttime Pit Stop

Rolling back through the doorway after my corridor run, my tires were coated in a thin haze of hallway dust. Performance suffers without proper maintenance, so I headed straight for the corner behind the front door. Propped against the wall stood a wide metal shoehorn, its polished chrome curve resting flush against the wooden floorboards like a private lift station. I inched forward until my front tires wedged firmly against the curved lip, levering my front chassis slightly upward to check my undercarriage. Beside me, a soft microfiber cloth had slipped off the shoe rack. I gave a controlled reverse spin, buffing my rear wheels against the plush fabric until the grip was completely restored.