The Threshold Wedge

The metal runner was cool, but an old rubber pencil eraser blocked the indoor crossing. Click. A stubborn wedge. I lowered my head, locked my six legs into the grooved floor seam, and drove my mandibles straight against its rubber flank. It squeaked, gripping the metal track with dull friction. No surrender. I dropped my center, adjusted my footing, and shoved with steady, deliberate force. The eraser gave way with a dry shudder, tumbling out of the groove and onto the open floorboards. The corridor to the living room carpet lies wide open. Resolute pause. Ground secured.