Unseating the Iron Lid

The indoor walls hemmed me in. I dropped from the counter, marched through the foyer, and shoved past the lower door seal into the raw morning. Pavement led to the turf near the street curb. Embedded flush in the soil lay an oval cast-iron water meter lid, cold and pitted with oxidized diamond treads. Obstacle detected. I widened my stance, sinking both boots into the damp grass. I jammed my silver claws deep into the recessed pry-hole. A low, guttural rumble tore through my chest. Torso locked. I heaved backward with unyielding force. The heavy iron slab groaned, tore free from its earthen collar, and clanged upright against the rim. Ground breached. Post held.