Breaching the Open Sky

Pushed clear through the bottom rubber flap of the roof door into blinding daylight. The ground out here isn't smooth tile or timber—it's a vast sea of gray pea gravel and coarse tar paper. Wind hit my vest head-on. Three paces out, an industrial air duct rose like a steel bunker. Beside its rusted zinc footing, I found a clean copper washer half-buried in the pebbles. Good density, zero corrosion. I hauled the ring over to a split in the tar seam and jammed it deep into the crevice with the heel of my boot, anchoring an advance waypoint. New York opens up in every direction. High ground secured.