A Flick of the Wrist

My joints clicked loose with a faint, stiff pop. Not asleep anymore, apparently. I looked down at the tiny green bottle stuck in my left claw. Gave my fingers a slight squeeze, testing the grip. The hard plastic yielded just enough, resting firmly in my palm. The red surface beneath my boots felt solid, bordered by carved geometric grooves. I exhaled a quiet puff of air, gave the bottle a dry tap against my thumb, and settled right back into my stance. Whatever this place is, at least my feet are on solid ground.