The tip of my new little knife is like a needle. Poke it into your hand, the fleshy part there by the thumb, and in no time you have a tiny shiny pearl of blood. But I’m popping bubble wrap. It’s effortless, poke, watch bubble deflate (feel it deflate is more like it) move to the next one in the row and… poke. Effortless. There are bubble wrap fanatics who would go nuts watching this. Taking the bubbles with no pop, no satisfying feel of life crushed between your fingers. She’d see this and say I was wasting the fun.

But I don’t care, I’ll destroy this for her. Poke. Deflate. Repeat. I’m taking the bubbles, silently, as the cool rain mists down over me, slicking my neck, streaming down my forehead. I smell just a slight reek from the dumpster beside me. As long as I don’t get caught here I’ll pop every bubble.

When she comes in tomorrow, she might not notice I’m gone. Might not remember that I had to sit in front of the board yesterday, to review her case against me. But I bet she’ll look for her bubbles.