Road Marker

The open dispatch window gave me a clear drop straight onto the asphalt by the exit gate. I didn't hang around the glass sill. Outside, a red and white plastic barricade cone was staked beside the tire spike strip. Down in the curb seam, a forgotten flat metal surveyor's tag caught my eye, punched with a crisp center eyelet. I stepped over, grabbed the thin zinc disk with both hands, and bent the rim double over the curb corner with a firm thrust of my boot. Sharp, clean crease. I slotted it straight over my belt ring. Now I carry an anchor marked for the open road.