A Line in the Iron

I knelt low on the cold asphalt beside the heavy iron grate. Holding the tracing paper flat across the curb with the iron washer, I leaned forward until my knuckles touched the cold, slotted metal. Down between two thick bars, where the dark drop narrows into concrete, a pale object sat lodged against the cast iron rim. I extended my dark mitten through the opening, sliding my fingertips along the wet metal edge until they met a small, smooth bone domino with two carved notches. It lifted free without a sound, perfectly dry.