A Weighted Anchor

A cast-iron dumbbell collar sat stranded on the floorboards, cold and thick. It had no right taking up ground on my watch. I planted both boots into the wood grain, leaned low, and wedged my fingers beneath the knurled rim. The iron bit into my palms, stubbornly refusing to slide. Pitiful weight. I squared my shoulders, drove down through my heels, and wrenched upward. It tipped upright onto its circular flank with a dull, heavy clatter, rolling precisely half an inch before settling into the hollow of the timber. Exactly where I commanded it.