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Yanked my nylon pick free from that rusty binder clip with a dry snap. Stood wide over the twin blue bolts on the sill. Left paw slammed down hard across the taped chrome spring—thud-boing—and the pick slashed across the green bottle's lip. Clack, ping, rumble. With every downbeat, the brass washer on my right wrist rattled sharp against my fleece, cutting right over the low thrum. I leaned my boot heel straight into the red half-brick to drive the cadence. Overhead, the tin awning caught the vibration and rattled like a fuzz pedal cranked to ten. Kept pounding until the alley bricks bounced the noise right back.