I clung to the thread on Dad’s sleeve, my tiny fists burning as the coarse fabric swayed like a rope bridge in a storm. His arm swung gently, oblivious to my struggle, each motion a tidal wave threatening to fling me into the void. The counter was a distant memory now, its glassy expanse replaced by the dizzying height of his shoulder. I gritted my teeth, willing my aching arms to hold on. I was so close to making him notice me.
“Let’s clean,” Dad muttered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the flannel. The world lurched as he turned, striding toward the table. Plates clattered like collapsing buildings, and the syrup bottle thudded onto a shelf, sending a shockwave through the air. I pressed myself flat against his sleeve, my heart hammering as crumbs and napkins flew past like debris in a hurricane. His hands moved with purpose, wiping the counter, stacking dishes, each motion a test of my grip.
Then he started up the stairs. Each step was an earthquake, his arm swinging in rhythm with his stride. The thread I held twisted, and I wrapped my legs around it, clinging like a spider to a web. The air grew warmer, tinged with the faint scent of coffee and pancake batter still lingering on him. I glanced up, catching a glimpse of his jaw, the stubble like a forest of black wire against the morning light streaming through a window.
In his room, he coughed—a deep, rattling sound that shook me to my core. I tightened my grip, but the thread was fraying, tiny fibers snapping under my weight. He reached for his closet, pulling out his police uniform. The tight pants slid on first, the leather belt creaking as he fastened it. Each movement was a jolt, and I swung wildly, my stomach churning. Then came the shirt. He tugged off the flannel in one swift motion, and the world spun.
The thread snapped. I plummeted, a scream caught in my throat, and landed with a soft thud inside the waistband of his pants. The fabric closed around me like a trap, the elastic pressing tight against my back. It was dark, warm, the air heavy with the scent of cotton and skin. I pushed against the waistband, but it was unyielding, pinning me against the curve of his hip. His movements were muffled now, but I felt the shift as he adjusted his belt, each tug tightening my prison.
“Time for work,” he said, his voice distant, oblivious. The floor vibrated as he stepped forward, each stride jostling me deeper into the fabric’s grip. I was stuck, a speck trapped against him, my cries swallowed by the vastness of his world. But I wasn’t giving up. Not yet. If I could just find a way to climb, to reach him, maybe he’d feel me before he left for the station.
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