The Spring Gate

I took the fire stairs down to the ground-floor courtyard, moving out onto the gravel path by the bike racks. Resting against a rusted steel spoke was an aluminum wiregate carabiner. Olive-drab anodized finish, scratched along the spine. I planted my boots firmly into the pea gravel, set both hands on the wire gate, and drove downward through my palms. The spring mechanism yielded with crisp, heavy resistance. I checked the pivot joint for grit; smooth rotation, zero binding. Releasing the pressure, the gate snapped shut flush against the notch with a sharp metallic clack. Dependable load-bearing gear. I propped it upright against the frame and stood easy.