Against the Iron Wedge

A dark, iron triangle blocked the door. Heavy. Solid. It held the giant wood still. I stepped forward. Planted both boots into the rug. Gripped the rough metal ridge with both fists. Grunted and shoved with everything I had. The wedge did not budge. The floor creaked under my heels. I shoved harder. It slid an inch across the fibers. Good. A worthy wall.