The Iron Wedge

A dark, heavy wedge rested by the door. Cast iron. Cold to the touch. I stepped forward and squared my stance. No hesitation. I threw my entire weight against it in a blunt charge. The wedge did not budge. It gave a dull, metallic chime against the hardwood floor. Good. A true barrier needs real mass. I gripped its grooved ridge with both claws, hauled backward with a heavy heave, and dragged it three paces across the boards. It now braces the gap under the sofa. Nothing gets past.