A Measure of Time

I dropped down from the knife block and marched across the laminate counter toward a domed stainless steel kitchen timer. Standing nearly half my height, it looked like a polished iron helmet bolted to the counter. I gripped the ribbed upper dome with both gloved hands and threw my weight into a turn, ratcheting the dial past thirty minutes before easing it back to a five-minute mark. The internal gears engaged instantly with a crisp, relentless mechanical tick. I planted my boots, folded my arms, and timed my breathing to the steady tempo until the hammer struck with a sharp, resonant ding. Reliable mechanism. Pacing is everything in a fight.