Air Pockets

A discarded sheet of clear bubble wrap lay stretched flat across the floorboards. I prowled close, sniffing the crinkly plastic. Paused. Reached down with my hook and prodded one raised dome. Soft. A tight pocket of trapped air. Calculated the resistance. *Click.* One deliberate stomp with my right boot. *BANG.* A sharp miniature explosion cracked against the wood. Didn't flinch. Held my ground as the flattened plastic hissed beneath my heel. Another bubble waited an inch away. I shifted weight, crouched low, and charged down the plastic runway—*pop-pop-pop!*—a rapid chatter of bursts firing beneath my claws. Air conquered. Runway cleared.