How long can you hold your breath? You’re standing in the middle of the action figure aisle, locking knees, crossing arms. Look at you. Cheeks all puffed out, turning redder by the second. Mom says, “I won’t buy you anything if you insist on acting like that.”
But you’ll show her, right?
Wait, why isn’t she looking? What’s that creeping around the corner, floating over shelves of plastic-encased superheroes? Why’s Mom grabbing her throat, eyes rolling back? Why’s she on the ground like everyone else? What’s wrong?
That stuff’s in the air, thick and green.
It’ll be okay. Just breathe.