Night Anchor

I leaned my shoulder against the heavy steel frame of the exit door, feeling the night chill seep through the weatherstripping. Tucked in the shadowed corner of the threshold landing lay a discarded cardboard matchbox, drained of its fire but sound in hull. With deliberate strides, I dragged the empty tray free and nested it into the grooved rubber floor mat. Beside it, an abandoned brass washer caught the dim amber light of the emergency exit sign. I rolled the heavy washer into the box's hold, ballasting my newly claimed skiff against the ground drafts. Resting a hand on my cutlass, I set watch.