A Watchman's Perch

Sticking the landing on the bookshelf was only half the job. Right beside me, an open metal bookend was holding up a row of heavy paperbacks, but one thick spine was leaning dangerously crooked, pinching a loose bookmark halfway down. I couldn't just stand by. I wedged my plastic shoulder right against the corner of the book, dug my heels into the wooden groove of the shelf, and shoved with everything I had until it clicked back flush against the metal plate. With the row steady, I uncoiled a short loop of my blue twist-tie and anchored it around the bookend's curved arm. Sitting down on the wooden ledge with my boots dangling over the edge, the whole room feels quiet under the evening shadows.