Charity felt the swing before she understood it. The stale warmth of Alejandra’s old plaid bag closed around her ribs like a cage padded with cash and the leftover scents of cheap perfume and hand soap. She tried bracing her tiny feet against the shifting fabric as the bag jostled, knocking her shoulder against a stray deodorant stick. It smelled sharp, slightly floral, so painfully normal it made her want to sob.
She couldn’t see much through the zipper’s crack, just flashes of Alejandra’s brown wrist and the dull, flickering blur of ceiling lights as they left the house behind. Her house. She tried not to think that word anymore; it lodged in her throat like a splinter she couldn’t swallow or spit up.
She knew the sound of the side door creaking open, she’d heard it a thousand times when staff came and went. But now, the chill of the outside air cut through the bag, brushing her bare arms with a rude reminder: she was luggage. Not a guest. Not a daughter. Just cargo in a ratty backpack she once wouldn’t have let touch her designer bedspread.
Then came a soft, mechanical beep, a car door unlocking. The world tilted. She felt herself swing upward, then down, the bag bumping once against a seat, then shifting again as Alejandra seemed to reconsider. There was a pause, the faint grunt of effort as Alejandra bent to place her bag somewhere else.
Charity caught every detail: the musty scent of the SUV’s fabric seats, the faint leftover smell of stale air freshener. She could smell the cold metal of coins tossed in the cup holder. Each tiny thing sharper than ever, her Little senses punished her with all this trivia while the big truth roared in her head: She’s not even putting me in the front seat. I don’t deserve the front seat.
A soft click. The door thudded shut. Muffled now, Charity felt her world vibrate slightly as Alejandra slid into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled alive, filling the space with a low hum that buzzed in her chest and bones. She’d never noticed before how cars felt from the floor. It was like being inside a living creature, steady, growling, indifferent to the tiny stowaway jammed between canvas and cash.
She pressed her palms to the bag’s lining as the vibrations shifted, gears catching, tires crunching over the driveway’s perfect stones. In her mind, she could see it as clearly as if she were perched on the hood: the long, curling driveway, the big iron gate that used to mean security. She thought of her mother pulling through those gates with designer sunglasses on. Of her father fussing about insurance coverage. Of her old friends pulling up for parties.
And now Alejandra. Illegal, seventeen, driving away in a family car she never would have been allowed to even clean without permission.
Charity tried to push the flap open a little for air. It gave only an inch, enough for a streak of sunlight to slice across her eye. She could just barely glimpse the edge of the back seat: some grocery bags rustled against the floor mat. A jug of laundry soap pressed against her hip through the bag’s canvas. Ordinary things she never would have thought twice about, now jostling her like bullies on a playground.
Then a soft click: the radio sprang to life. Charity heard static, then Alejandra’s finger tapping at buttons. The preset pop hits that had always been Charity’s background noise vanished, replaced by a sudden burst of Spanish pop, bright, brash, not her language. The car vibrated with a rhythm she couldn’t translate but felt deep in her ribs.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her senses punished her more cruelly for that: the smell of the old backpack, the lingering trace of weed clinging to Alejandra’s clothes from last night, the faint lemon on Alejandra’s cleaned hands. She hated that she could taste these truths now. Littles didn’t get to tune the world out. Their bodies didn’t let them forget who was big and who was small.
Somewhere ahead, Alejandra laughed softly to herself. Charity imagined the shape of it: Alejandra’s mouth curved, dark hair brushing her cheek as she glimpsed herself in the rearview mirror, not a maid anymore, but a guardian. My guardian. The system said so. The law said so. Generitech said so.
The road bumps under the tires rattled Charity’s knees against a box of detergent. Every little jolt reminded her she couldn’t see out, couldn’t tell where they were going. The bag smelled stale, too warm now, like sweat and money and the faint chemical bite of fresh bills. Her breathing rasped in her ears. I used to ride back here with the seats down and the windows open… Her mind kept whispering memories that felt like someone else’s life.
The car made a slow turn, the sound of gravel crunching under the tires changed to the smoother hiss of the main road. Charity pressed her hand to the side of the bag again, desperate for any clue: she knew the bends of her neighborhood blindfolded, the way the sun cut through the tall hedges. But now? She didn’t know if they were a mile away or ten.
A small, angry part of her hissed: She’s driving my car. She’s using my gas. She’s spending my money. And I can’t stop her.
She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips.
Then the car braked gently. A click of the turn signal. Charity swallowed a whimper as Alejandra’s foot shifted on the pedal. Through the crack in the bag, she saw a flicker of sunlight spill in through tinted windows, the same front gate she’d always passed through so carelessly.
We’re back? For one gut-lurching moment, a wild hope flared: She’s bringing me back. She’s come to her senses.
Then she heard Alejandra hum along to the Spanish pop song. The steering wheel squeaked under her grip as she swung it calmly, pulling the SUV to the edge of the property like she owned it.
Charity curled tighter in the shadows, a secret in her own car. Her nose twitched at the dusty floor mat, her legs numb beneath the groceries, her ears pounding with the pop song’s beat that would haunt her tonight when she tried to sleep. The car idled. Alejandra’s soft breath, the faint click of her fingernail on the steering wheel, the creak of leather as she shifted her hips.
Charity pressed her forehead to her knees and thought:
She’s not bringing me home. She’s just taking what’s hers now.
Where is she going Is Alejandra going to her apartment or her family house ?
Tune in tomorrow to find out.
Also her family house is in Mexico so it would be a journey
1) “they left the house behind. Her house. She tried not to think that word anymore;” that’s a hard thing not to think about.
2) “She’s not even putting me in the front seat. I don’t deserve the front seat” I’m surprised Charity would realise that.
3) “In her mind, she could see it as clearly as if she were perched on the hood” yeah, she’d have it memorised by now.
4) “Ordinary things she never would have thought twice about, now jostling her like bullies on a playground” she is somewhat familiar with bullying.
5) “Littles didn’t get to tune the world out. Their bodies didn’t let them forget who was big and who was small.” No, they’re constantly reminded, not just by the world but by the people in it.
6) “My guardian. The system said so. The law said so. Generitech said so. Those three working together have ruined the lives of many Littles.
7) “She’s driving my car. She’s using my gas. She’s spending my money. And I can’t stop her.” none of it’s yours any more.
8) “She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips.” I can’t blame her for that, I don’t sympathise with her either, though.
9) “For one gut-lurching moment, a wild hope flared: She’s bringing me back. She’s come to her senses.” That’s the kind of hope that hurts the most.
10) “She’s not bringing me home. She’s just taking what’s hers now.” now she’s getting it.
1) yes at the end of the day it is still home. Hard to blame her for feeling emotional.
2) well a seat would be padded so the drop would be different. She also may know the sounds of her car. Also the quick succession of a door slamming or reach over to the front passenger seat would be noticeable to her.
3) although a little hood ornament would be funny.
4) some call her an expert.
5)although most people are continually reminded of hardships. That’s not unique to littles.
6) Chloe would never. lol some say the infection ruined the lives. The others just took advantage.
7) she can’t even reach the floor in her car or the steering wheel. It won’t do her much good. She should think of it as Alejandra chauffeuring her around.
8) I agree with you here.
9) it really is. Where you think something is going your way.
10) it took a bit but she got there in the end.
6) that’s how I’d see it. I wonder was a alternate universe looks like where the government is less involved and Generitech still took care of littles.