I gripped the broom’s handle, its smooth surface slick under my tiny hands. The counter loomed above like a glass canyon wall, but Dad was right there, flipping pancakes, his spatula scraping the pan with a metallic screech. I had to get to him. I couldn’t stay this small forever.
The broom tilted slightly as I climbed, each inch a battle against gravity. My arms burned, my fingers ached, but I kept going, hauling myself up hand over hand. The top of the counter was close now, its edge gleaming in the morning light. Dad’s elbow brushed the air above, a gust of wind that nearly sent me tumbling. I clung tighter, my heart pounding like a drum.
Finally, I reached the counter’s edge. I scrambled over, collapsing onto the cold surface, gasping. The world was enormous—stacks of plates like skyscrapers, a coffee mug a towering silo. Dad’s hand moved nearby, grabbing a bottle of syrup the size of a water tower. I sprinted toward him, dodging crumbs and a smear of jam that stuck to my shoes.
“Dad!” I screamed, my voice a desperate squeak. He didn’t flinch, still humming that old rock song. I was close enough to see the frayed threads of his flannel shirt, the faint stubble on his jaw. I jumped, waving my arms, but I was a speck, a dust mote in his world. The spatula swooped down, a silver guillotine, and I dove to avoid it, skidding across the counter.
I couldn’t give up. I ran to the edge of the counter, where his arm rested momentarily. If I could just touch him, maybe he’d feel me. I leaped, grabbing a loose thread on his sleeve, swinging wildly. “Dad, it’s me!” I yelled, climbing higher, my hands slipping on the fabric. He shifted, and I clung for dear life, my stomach lurching as the world tilted. He still didn’t know I was here, but I was so close. One more push, and maybe—just maybe—he’d see me.