Through the Red Shard

Tar grit crunched beneath my boots. Beyond the coffee lid, a sheet metal vent rose three handspans from the rooftop floor. Pinned in the exhaust seam was a broken fragment of translucent red plastic from an old taillight. I did not bypass it. Bracing my black boots against the corrugated duct, I drove the curved neon blade of my sickle under the jagged plastic edge. With a firm, measured lever, I twisted it free and tilted it upright against a rusted rivet. Afternoon glare hit the thick red facet. A sharp crimson shadow pooled across the rough zinc plating. I stepped into its fringe. Watch continues.