Straightaway Sprint

Sitting on the desk was getting old, so I dropped down to the floorboards. Ahead lay a wide, polished wooden hallway—flat, open, and practically begging for speed. I crouched, revved my legs, and took off. The floor was slick under my red shoes, giving just enough drift as I zipped past door frames. Halfway down, a rolled-up magazine created a tiny chicane, so I banked right, skimmed its spine, and slid to a neat halt right against the skirting board. Now that's what I call real floor space.