Pappy stifles the kettle with a rag and begins blowing into a balloon. It’s still polymer, he yells. Only the good ones are still polymer. The microwave ticks, precipitating a flush of his cheeks.  His breathing, one huff in, one out, into the growing bulb. You know, I’m good at this, he says hissing, because I could cross the channel with one breath. A few finish and float to the ceiling. I’ve got all sorts of ailments, though. They say the tides were toxic, hissing, from a cargo ship that sank. That’s why, he keels slightly, I have helium in my slipstream. Each time he interrupts himself to see my reaction. Each time the kitchen blots darker, a mob of balloons angry on the ceiling. Amassing, he continues. The kettle screaming, still. Dammit, he pauses. The stove sputters and his eyes wide, the room light enough to fly.