The Boundary Line

The indoor patrol grew narrow. I pushed my way through the cracked terrace glass into the open morning air. A dry brown oak leaf skittered across the concrete, driven by a sudden gust, straight toward my paws. I did not flinch. I planted my weight forward and slammed one heavy paw over its center, pinning the dry spine flat to the stone with a sharp crunch. It ceased its movement. I stood over it, inhaling cold air, cedar, and distant pavement. The boundary is held.