The Runaway Sphere

I leave the dark boot behind and advance onto cold kitchen tile. Ahead rests a green apple, dislodged from the floor basket. Motionless. I close the distance. It offers no resistance. I lower my snout and prod the waxy skin. It wobbles, then rolls—a smooth, quiet escape across the ceramic squares. I give chase. Three heavy strides, claws clicking against the glaze. Before it breaches the shadow beneath the stove, I bring my left talon down across its curve. Halted. The sphere shudders, pinned against the grout line. It does not strike back. Target secured.