My fingers slipped on the thread, the coarse flannel betraying me as Dad’s arm shifted. I screamed, a tiny, desperate sound lost in the air, and fell. The world blurred—a dizzying spiral of light and shadow—before I landed with a soft impact in the folds of his pants. The fabric was warm, tight, and the air was thick with a musky scent that hit me like a wave. I scrambled to orient myself, my hands pressing against the taut surface beneath me, and froze. I could feel the faint pulse of his body, the unmistakable shape of him through the thin layer of cotton. My stomach twisted, a mix of panic and embarrassment flooding my chest.
I was in the groin area of his pants, a place no kid should ever be, shrunk or not. The heat was stifling, the scent of sweat and skin overwhelming, clinging to every breath I took. I pushed against the fabric, trying to climb, but the tight weave of his pants trapped me, my tiny limbs sinking into the folds. Above, his belt creaked as he adjusted it, each movement pressing me deeper into the cramped space.
“Time for work,” Dad said, his voice booming like thunder. The word work hit me like a blow—he was a cop, and he was about to leave. I pictured his patrol car, the radio crackling, the city streets stretching endlessly beyond this suffocating prison. I had to get out, to make him notice me before he walked out the door.
I clawed at the fabric, my nails scraping against the cotton, but it was like climbing a vertical cliff. The musk grew stronger as he moved, his stride jostling me with every step. I caught a glimpse of light through a seam, a faint hope, and lunged for it, wedging my arm into the tiny gap. “Dad!” I screamed, my voice a pathetic squeak against the rustle of his uniform. He didn’t hear, didn’t pause, his body a relentless machine carrying me further from the kitchen, from any chance of being seen.
I wasn’t giving up. I twisted, kicking against the fabric, searching for a loose thread, a fold, anything to pull myself free.