Merle was the balloon on the right. The yellow one, with the wording stretched across his bright, latex chest, inflated with helium until he was near-bursting. Sometimes, when his little girl skipped down the street, he bumped against the other balloons, Melvin the pink one, Sally the green one. They squeaked as they pressed together going through the front door to the girl’s home. They all bumped their heads gently on the ceiling as the girl slept. Just before dawn, on the third day of their existence, Merle got sick of the others and murdered them in their slowly deflating sleep.