I dodged a falling block, my lungs burning as I sprinted for Max’s sneaker. The monster truck’s roar chased me, its tires chewing up the floor. I couldn’t look back. His shoe was a fortress of scuffed canvas and knotted laces, towering over me. I leaped, grabbing a frayed lace, and hit the side of the sneaker hard. My fingers burned as I clung on, the ground shaking as Max shifted his foot.
I scrambled up, using the eyelets as footholds, each step a desperate lunge. The fabric reeked of dirt and sweat, but I didn’t care—I had to reach him. The truck screeched somewhere behind, and I heard Max’s laugh, oblivious, as he mashed the remote’s buttons. I hauled myself onto the top of his sneaker, a plateau of worn tread, and collapsed, gasping.
Max’s leg stretched up like a skyscraper, his jeans a craggy cliff face. He was sprawled on the floor, one hand flicking the remote, the other scratching his head. His wild hair bounced as he cackled, lost in his game. I had to climb higher—his knee, his shirt, his shoulder. If I could get to his face, maybe he’d notice me.
I grabbed the hem of his jeans, coarse denim biting my palms. The fabric swayed as he moved, nearly flinging me off. I climbed, muscles screaming, dodging loose threads like vines. The rumbling never stopped—truck, footsteps, Max’s chaos. I reached his knee, a plateau of faded denim, and looked up. His face was miles away, grinning at the destruction on the floor.
I shouted, “Max!” but my voice was a squeak, swallowed by the noise. The truck looped closer, its wind battering me. I couldn’t stay here. I eyed his shirt, a wrinkled slope hanging loose. If I could jump, grab the fabric, I’d climb to his chest, maybe his shoulder. But one wrong move, and I’d fall into the warzone below.