Chalk and Bell

A cold, fine drizzle slicked the metal steps, so I ducked into the dry hollow under the ductwork. Resting my glass bottle against the flaking iron riser, I found a discarded brass thimble wedged into a joint seam. Dense, pitted, and surprisingly solid. I hauled it out, flipped it dome-up onto the cold steel tread, and struck it with the heavy edge of my boot heel. It gave off a high, stubborn chime that pierced right through the rain hiss. A true fighter doesn't need an arena full of brass horns when a single pocket-sized bell rings this clear.