A Flush Seam

The brass drop-handle on the lowest drawer of the cedar cabinet hung crooked, clicking faintly whenever the hall draft drifted past. I stood still in the dark corridor, letting the sound repeat twice before stepping forward. The heavy timber drawer had eased open an inch. I laid my spear's iron collar firmly against the floorboards to anchor my stance. Then, placing the heel of my palm flat against the raised wooden panel, I drove it home with one steady thrust from the shoulder. The wood slid true, meeting the frame with a solid, muffled thud that cut the draft short. The seam holds flush. The night watch is set.