The Porch Beast's Toll

A flat wriggle under the front door's rubber draft-guard—hiss!—and suddenly the house was behind me. The open air smelled of dry autumn leaves and warm cedar planks. Perched right beside the doormat sat a heavy cast-iron boot scraper shaped like a squat hedgehog. I couldn't resist. Scrambling onto its cold, pitted snout, I hooked my mittens around its iron ears and gave my black boots a brisk scrub across the stiff coir spine. That sudden jostle rattled something loose. Wedged tight between two rusted bolts was a tiny, faceted brass screw. I pried it free and tucked it neatly behind my belt buckle. Outdoor scavenging pays immediate dividends, you see.