Charity didn’t really sleep so much as drift in and out of a shallow haze, a restless half-dream where her old house flickered in and out behind Alejandra’s ragged walls. Every time her eyelids fluttered closed, her mind played cruel tricks: she’d see her own plush bed, her silk sheets, the soft rustle of a bedroom door opening to the quiet footsteps of someone delivering her breakfast tray.
Then a pipe would groan, or Alejandra would cough, or a car horn would blare through the thin window, and the illusion shattered like spun glass, leaving her blinking up into shadows and the cotton cave of the hoodie.
She lost count of how many times she did that before the pale gray light of dawn began creeping through the cracks in the old blinds.
By the time the sun properly climbed, Charity’s entire body ached in a way that felt both familiar and foreign. Her hips were stiff from curling into herself on the rough fabric. Her shoulders throbbed from bracing at every unexpected noise through the night.
And worst of all was the chill: as dawn turned the room from black to pewter to washed-out yellow, the hoodie’s warmth faded completely. She could feel the cold air licking at her bare toes through a tiny hole in the cuff. She curled deeper inside, nose pressed to a spot near the collar where Alejandra’s scent was strongest, hating that it comforted her.
This can’t be my life, she thought, teeth clenched so hard her jaw pulsed with pain. I can’t let this be my life.
She could hear Alejandra beginning to stir. The massive shifting weight above her, a low, half-asleep grunt, the squeak of bedsprings as the girl rolled to her side. Then, the one sound that truly made Charity’s skin prickle, Alejandra’s breath, closer than she expected, warm and humid and impossibly loud in the hush of morning.
Charity froze. A ridiculous instinct told her to hide deeper, as if she were prey burrowed into this hoodie-nest.
But then the hoodie lifted, peeled gently away from her. Light poured in, shockingly bright. The sudden exposure made her blink hard, her eyes were still clumsy about light now, adapting in jerky moments rather than smooth transitions.
Above her loomed Alejandra’s face: soft with sleep, hair a messy halo spilling over her shoulders. Brown eyes, alert now, pinned her in place with a directness that made Charity want to shrink deeper but left nowhere to go.
Alejandra didn’t speak at first. She just watched her, one brow twitching faintly as if some private thought amused her. Then a low yawn rumbled from her chest, and she murmured, voice heavy with the leftover rasp of sleep,
“Buenos días, Patrona.”
That word again, Patrona. Charity hated how it dripped with the faintest edge of teasing. She hated it more because it was true. Once she had been the boss. Now she was… this. A trembling scrap of a person half-wrapped in a stolen hoodie cuff, entirely at the mercy of a seventeen-year-old undocumented housekeeper.
Alejandra sat up fully, stretching her arms until her shoulder joints popped. The bedframe groaned under her weight, another tiny quake that rattled Charity’s bones.
Charity opened her mouth, desperate to find her voice. She needed to steer this day. She needed Alejandra to call Kira. She needed her control back, or at least an exit.
But what squeaked out was pitifully faint: “Alejandra… we need to talk…”
Alejandra’s head tilted. A slow, almost catlike smile spread across her lips. She leaned closer, enough that Charity could feel the heat of her breath fanning her tiny arms.
“Oh? Ahora sí quieres hablar, eh?”
The Spanish tangled Charity’s thoughts for a beat, she knew enough to catch now you want to talk? The tone said the rest: amused, indulgent, so casual it scraped at her pride.
Alejandra’s fingers came down then, just her fingertips brushing along the edge of the hoodie’s opening. She didn’t grab Charity, but the implied power in that simple touch pressed on Charity harder than any hand could.
Charity’s tiny shoulders hunched. She forced herself to keep eye contact. She wouldn’t flinch again, damn it.
I need her, she reminded herself. But not for long. Just until Kira comes. Just until I’m safe.
So she inhaled shakily, squared her tiny spine, and said with as much calm as her trembling voice would allow:
“Please… please call Kira today. She’ll… she’ll take me.”
Alejandra’s smile softened at the edges, but her eyes stayed unreadable. For a heartbeat, Charity wondered if she’d agree. If all this nightmare could be handed over to someone else and she could stop depending on this girl who used to clean her bathroom floors.
Alejandra’s next words were soft, almost playful, yet beneath them, Charity heard the iron she dreaded:
“Maybe. Later. First — you eat more. You rest. Then… we see.”
The giant rose, leaving Charity blinking in the broad morning light, her tiny breath frosting faintly in the lingering chill. The apartment hummed awake around her, the pipes, the city, the ancient fridge humming in its corner.
And Charity realized with a deep, icy finality that the day was not hers to command anymore.
It belonged, for now, to Alejandra.
Charity’s going to be in for a rude awakening when she finds out that Alejandra registered her to herself.
I now agree with members that said Al wants to have charity live like her because this chapter feels like if Al can get a good price from Kiri , she wouldn’t be heartbroken.
1) “Every time her eyelids fluttered closed, her mind played cruel tricks:” Cruel tricks are her mind’s speciality.
2) “This can’t be my life, she thought, teeth clenched so hard her jaw pulsed with pain. I can’t let this be my life.” denial is normal,
3.1) “That word again, Patrona. Charity hated how it dripped with the faintest edge of teasing.” I don’t know what’s more ironic, her real name being Charity, or her nickname being “Patrona”
3.2) “Now she was… this. A trembling scrap of a person half-wrapped in a stolen hoodie cuff” Scrap of a person is a very Charity way to describe littles, and I don’t think the hoodie is stolen if Al just lets her use it.
4) “Charity opened her mouth, desperate to find her voice. She needed to steer this day. She needed Alejandra to call Kira. She needed her control back, or at least an exit.” good luck with that, bitch.
5) “Maybe. Later. First — you eat more. You rest. Then… we see.” I don’t think she’s gonna do it.
6) “that the day was not hers to command anymore. It belonged, for now, to Alejandra.” I think it’s gonna belong to all for a while
1) I see what you did there. She is not a stranger to them that’s for sure.
2) It would be strange if she wasn’t in a bit denial considering the situation
3) She has the greatest names that are attached to a character IMHO in the smallara universe. Its so fitting.
3.2) She calls it a stolen hoodie because she views Alejandra as immigrant street trash. She says its stolen because she is playing up a stereotype that exists in America at least that exists towards people of color.
4)Atleast she has goals and a plan. That is more then Jordan had any point.
5) Time will tell which way the cookie crumbles.
6) Is that your pick? All chips to the table?
2) That’s true
3.1) agreed, I love them both.
3.2) Charity is bigoted to someone different than herself? I’m schocked (also another Sara similarity)
4) That’s true, never thought I’d say this but perhaps Jordan should be more like Charity.
5&6) well, I was sure, until you said that, now I’m less certain