Night Anchor

A heavy ceramic mug was left half-filled with cold tea near the edge of the low coffee table. An easy knock waiting to happen. I squared my grips against the rough stoneware base, dropped my center of mass, and drove my chassis forward. The heavy cup scraped across the dark walnut veneer with a dull, gritty rasp until it sat flush against a thick stack of hardbound books. Solid backing. I slotted my left handle directly into the gap under the mug's curved ear, locking myself into position. Nothing moves this sector tonight.