Down at the Stoop

Took the metal fire escape down to street level, slipping through the bottom gate straight onto the front stoop. The whole sidewalk was alive with noise. Chained around the lower bar of the iron handrail sat a heavy bicycle U-lock, crusted in gray road soot. I stepped in close, hooked my fingers around the cold shackle, and put my back into a sharp tug. Metal didn't flinch. The cylinder had some grit in the tumbler, but the core was hardened steel. Solid piece of hardware. I took a low crouch against the railing post, keeping an eye on the heavy boots trampling past on the concrete below.