Max’s bedroom was a chaotic jungle of clutter, the carpet beneath his bed a worn, grayish-blue, littered with crumbs and stray Lego pieces that crunched under his bare feet. He held me dangling in front of his face, his breath hot and smelling faintly of peanut butter. The toy spaceship in his other hand gleamed under the dim light of his desk lamp, and he swung it toward me, making “whoosh” noises.
“Ben, you’re gonna be the pilot!” he declared, jamming me headfirst into the ship’s tiny cockpit. My arms pinned to my sides, I couldn’t move, my face pressed against the scratched plastic. He spun the ship in wild loops, his laughter shaking the air. I should’ve felt the pressure, the dizziness, the scrape of the plastic—but I felt nothing. No pain, no discomfort, just a strange, numb void. I didn’t understand it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Max. If he knew, who knows what he’d do?
He tired of the spaceship and yanked me out, dropping me onto the carpet. I landed with a soft thud, the fibers scratchy under my hands. Max loomed above, a giant in a faded T-shirt, his bare feet shifting on the carpet, toes flexing. He crouched, his face filling my sky, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and mischief.
“Wait a sec,” he said, tilting his head. “So, are you, like, a tiny little action figure? Can you not feel things?”
My heart stuttered. How could he guess? I opened my mouth, fumbling for a lie, but before I could speak, Max’s grin widened, sharp and reckless. “Let’s find out.”
He stood, towering over me, and I saw his bare foot lift. The sole was grimy, streaked with sweat and carpet dust, the skin calloused and rough. A sour, musky stench hit me as it descended, fast and unstoppable. I threw up my hands, shouting, “Max, no!” but the foot slammed down, smothering me. The slimy warmth enveloped my face, the stink of sweat and dirt clogging my nose. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, but—nothing. No pain, no pressure, just the suffocating closeness and the humiliation of being trapped under his foot.
Max lifted his foot, laughing, his voice booming. “Feel that?” he taunted, not waiting for an answer. He spun around, his shadow swallowing me, and before I could scramble away, he dropped. His backside, clad in baggy shorts, came crashing down like a meteor. The carpet compressed under his weight, and I was pinned beneath him, the fabric of his shorts scratchy against my face, the overwhelming heat and faint smell of laundry detergent surrounding me. I screamed, my voice muffled, but again, I felt nothing—no crushing weight, no ache. Just the horror of being his plaything.
Max stood, brushing his hands together, grinning down at me as I lay gasping on the carpet. “Man, Ben, you’re tougher than my other toys. This is awesome.” He reached for me again, and I realized with a sinking dread that this was only the beginning.
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