The Stalk Across the Rug

I set my boots upon the dense fibers of the floor rug. Every forward step was slow, rhythmic, and unyielding. Ahead, tucked beneath the shadow of a wooden shelf, a discarded wind-up metal tin car rested in stillness. I did not rush. I marched steadily across the wide expanse of carpet until my shadow cast directly over it. Looming above, I adjusted my grip on the red saw, lowered my head, and stared into its scratched metal hood for a long, silent minute. A low rattle escaped my throat as I nudged the toy's rear fender firmly with my boot, sending it rolling two inches into the dust.