Reaching the Vent

I swung my magnetic frame off the junction box and gripped the cold overhead water pipe. Each step was a measured, silent snap of metal on steel. The morning shift was walking below, their clipboards tapping against benches, but their eyes never drifted up to the shadows. I reached the rectangular steel frame of the ceiling vent. The air flowing through the grate smelled different—dry, faint, carrying traces of dust from somewhere far beyond these tiled walls. I latched onto the vent rim and tested the corner latch. It is stiff, but reachable.