Small Talk: Sweetgum & Ash (Ch 4 added 9/27)

[Firewall]

Hello! I made another story based on my Small Talk universe featuring another tiny female protag! Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: The Runaway bride-to-be and The Woeful Son

Louisiana, 2022

The Heston house sat at the end of a crumbling cul-de-sac just outside of Monroe, Louisiana, its white siding yellowed with time and the slow creep of Gulf moisture. The porch sagged a little near the swing, and the windows hadn’t opened right since Hurricane Isaac. Inside, the A/C groaned endlessly, cooling a space that didn’t deserve to be comfortable.

Darla Heston used to feel too big for this place. Before the shrinking. Before PRD.

Darla herself used to be 5’6”, steel-willed and sharp-tongued, working as a teacher to second graders and dreaming of something bigger — always something bigger. But when Proportional Reduction Disorder took hold two years ago, shrinking her down to four inches tall over the course of three agonizing months, her world stopped expanding.

It just shrank with her.

Her family, who were strict Southern Baptists from outside Alexandria, saw her change not as a tragedy, but as a shame. A divine punishment, maybe. They stopped talking to her like an adult. Her bedroom became a glass-walled dollhouse prison.

Darla’s father, Jim was a quiet man when he wasn’t drunk, which unfortunately wasn’t often these days. The bottle was how he justified his choices—to himself, mostly. He’d once been a decent father. The type to take Darla fishing, teach her how to patch drywall, brag about her grades to anyone who’d listen at the hardware store. But since the "reduction," as they delicately called it, Jim had become brittle. Pride wounded, masculinity gutted. A man unable to look his daughter in the eyes without seeing failure reflected back at him.

Darla’s mother, Margo, handled it differently. She cried in church. A lot. Said things like “God’s testing us” and “everything happens for a reason,” but never quite met Darla’s gaze when she said it. Margo talked more to her prayer group than she did to her daughter now. Maybe it was easier to pity a tragedy than to love a daughter you couldn’t control anymore.

They kept Darla in what used to be her sewing cabinet. They lined it with soft fabric, gave her doll furniture, and even installed a tiny light. It looked sweet from the outside — a Pinterest-ready miracle of accommodation. But to Darla, it felt like a mausoleum built for someone still alive.

Jim was an aging shipping clerk, grew quieter. Angrier. And the Hestons were worried about finances until finally, he presented her with his “solution.”

Gideon Marsh, the full-size son of his boss. Crude. Arrogant. A man who didn’t ask for Darla’s hand so much as expect it. With her father’s promotion tied to the union, and Louisiana being one of the few states that allows full-sizer/tiny marriage, the deal was set. No courtship. No choice.

Just a wedding date and a cage made of gold and good intentions.

The Marshes were the kind of family who made deals over bourbon and Bible verses. Howard Marsh, Jim’s boss and patriarch of Marsh Logistics was a businessman in the old Southern sense — tight-lipped, legacy-obsessed, and as likely to end a conversation with a handshake as he was with a veiled threat.

His son, Gideon, had the face of a politician and the soul of a frat boy who never had to grow up. Big, handsome in a rough-cut way, but hollow behind the eyes. Darla had known Gideon before PRD — back when they were both teenagers and he used to tease her in hallways for wearing combat boots and quoting Sappho.

Its only too bad he hadn’t grown kinder with age.

Now, with her no bigger than the palm of his hand, he didn’t even try to hide the way he looked at her. Like a novelty. A possession. A living, breathing trophy that squeaked when provoked.

The arrangement — the marriage — was Howard’s idea. A union that would “bind the families.” Give Jim a promotion, give Gideon a wife who couldn’t talk back in public. And Darla? She would get security. Stability. A man to “take care of her.”

Like she was a sick dog, not a human being.
==
The night before the big union, they held a dinner to announce the engagement. Eight people. Two steaks. Four sides. And one tiny woman perched on a custom-made high platform, seated in a velvet chair barely larger than a matchbox.

Gideon toasted with whiskey, slurring his speech by the second round.

“To new beginnings!” he said, lifting his glass over Darla’s head. “And to my little wife. May she stay pretty and quiet.”

Everyone chuckled. Darla didn’t. She didn’t even blink. She had learned, in these last two years, that silence was its own kind of rebellion. Stillness, her best shield.

Gideon didn’t speak to Darla directly. Just tapped the side of her display case with a calloused knuckle, like she was an exotic insect he didn’t want to get too close to.

"She yours now." her father had said to Gideon. "Just... be decent."

Gideon had laughed at that. Not kindly.

After dinner, while the adults drank and gossiped, Gideon cornered her in the upstairs guest room where her case was kept. She was inside, pacing. He tapped the plexiglass like she was a fish.

“You think you’re too good for this?” he slurred. “You’re lucky someone like me’s even bothering.”

She didn’t respond. Just stared at him with her arms crossed.

He grinned. “You’ll learn.”
==

After the Marshes left, Darla made a decision that she refused to stand for all of this. That night, while her mother cried softly in the next room and her father finished off a bottle of Evan Williams in the garage, Darla stood at the edge of her custom-built drawer bed and looked out the window.

The swamp heat pressed in heavy, cicadas chirping like static in the dark. The world was huge now. Dangerous. Every inch of it a threat. But nothing — nothing — could be worse than what was waiting at that altar.

So she began to pack. Toothpick spear. Needle-hook. Matches shaved down to her size. A paperclip ladder she’d been building under the lining of her pillow.

She didn’t say goodbye. Because they never really saw her, not once, ever since the shrinking. She was four inches tall but tomorrow, she will be free.
====
Somewhere Along I-20, Headed Toward Northern Louisiana

The road west was long and soft with heat, a slow ribbon unraveling beneath Kyle’s tires. His truck — a 2001 Ford Ranger with a cracked dash and a smell like old upholstery and dog hair — purred low as he took the turnoff toward Monroe, Louisiana.

He’d been driving for nine hours.

The urn sat beside him in the passenger seat, seat belted in. It didn’t need to be, but he liked the way it felt — like he wasn’t entirely alone.

It was matte black. Clean. Simple. His mother wouldn’t have wanted anything fancy. In fact, she’d made that explicitly clear on her hospice bed, when words still came easy:

“I don’t want a goddamn glass box, Kyle. Just something dark. Something that disappears when the sun goes down.”

She’d always had a dry sense of humor. And a spine like iron when it came to her last wishes.

Her ashes were going to the Rockies — Colorado, somewhere off Trail Ridge Road. She had a photo tacked to the fridge since Kyle was a kid, a shot of the mountain skyline she’d cut from a magazine. Said she wanted to die somewhere that still remembered what it meant to be wild.

But first? A visit to Louisiana.

His Aunt Denise — his mother’s estranged sister — lived in a double-wide off an old farm road near Choudrant. She’d called him after the funeral, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes and too much time. Said she wanted to see him. Pay her respects. Offer him a real meal and a soft place to land.

He figured he owed her that much. And besides, he wasn’t in any rush.

Grief wasn’t something he could outrun, no matter how many miles he put between him and Allentown.

He kept the windows down, let the hot pine air roll in over his arm. The landscape changed slowly — flatter, greener. More kudzu, more ghost towns tucked between truck stops and bait shops.

A Tom Petty song came on the radio — “Time to Move On.” Kyle turned it up.

It wasn’t sad, not really. Just true.

At 27,Kyle looked like the kind of guy who knew how to fix your transmission and hold your secrets in equal measure. Broad-shouldered from warehouse work, his tan had faded into a trucker’s outline: forearms dark, neck slightly red, a t-shirt tan that refused to leave.

His hazel eyes looked like someone had taken kindness and poured a little tired into it. He hadn’t shaved since the funeral. Couldn’t be bothered.

He didn’t cry often. But when he did, it happened alone, and quietly — on long stretches of highway, or gas station bathrooms, or late at night when the truck cooled and the silence grew too thick to swallow.

By the time he reached Denise’s gravel driveway, the sun was a burnt-orange bruise on the horizon. She came out barefoot, holding a sweating glass of sweet tea and a cigarette that looked like it’d been smoked halfway down three times already.

She hugged him like she’d been waiting twenty years to.

“I’m sorry, baby.” she said, gripping the back of his neck. “She should’ve let me come sooner.”

“She didn’t want anyone seeing her like that.” Kyle replied, quietly.

Denise nodded. “Stubborn as a damn mule, your mama.”

He didn’t disagree. Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and old yarn. A tabby cat wound between his legs. The urn sat quietly in the truck, still buckled in, waiting

He would stay a couple nights.

Then maybe fix Denise’s busted porch fan. Maybe sleep in late. Maybe finally open the envelope his mother had slipped into the urn’s velvet bag — the one marked For the Mountains. For You.

He hadn’t dared touched it yet because he knew he didn’t feel ready.

What he didn’t know, not yet, was that somewhere out there — not far from where he parked — a four-inch woman was about to crawl into his life. Not out of romance, not at first, and not out of fate. Just need.

It would be a collision course of grief and escape.
====
The sun hadn't fully risen, but the heat already clung to the back of Darla’s neck like wet gauze. She crouched in the long grass at the edge of the highway rest stop, barely breathing as a semi-truck thundered past. The vibrations shook through her chest, tiny bones rattling like coins in a tin can.

She waited, counted to sixty, then darted forward — a streak of movement so small it wouldn’t even catch the corner of a tired trucker’s eye.

Her bare feet slapped against sun-bleached concrete, rough with gravel and the sticky residue of spilled soda. Above her, vending machines hummed like ancient gods. Her goal wasn’t the snacks — not yet. It was the dumpster. The bags. The trash left by hands too careless to toss everything inside.

She didn’t need much. Just crumbs. Something salty. Maybe a half-dried ketchup packet.

A sugar packet from someone’s forgotten coffee was gold.

Her getaway the night before had been half-executed, half-prayed.

She’d scaled the bookshelf in her room using a paperclip ladder tied to yarn. Dug her heels into the wallpaper and dropped down into her father’s boot, left beside the door. From there, she'd waited — heart hammering — until the house went still.

Then she ran.

A rat hole near the back porch had led her out. The old wooden slats of the porch were warped enough to slip beneath. The swampy backyard was a jungle to her, and somewhere in the early hours of morning, she’d hitched a ride under the wheel well of a parked truck. She didn’t know where it was headed. Only that it was away.

And away was all she needed to get away from her ghoulish future.
==
She was filthy. Clothes torn. Her legs were scraped from gravel, and the little satchel she’d sewn from a coin purse had already lost one strap. She’d lost a button hook along the way — one of the sharpened tools she carried for protection. Now she had just a sewing needle and a strip of duct tape stuck to the inside of her sleeve.

She had no idea where she was.

The road signs were too high to read. Every full-sizer face was a potential threat. She knew the world wasn’t built for people like her — but now she was living it, one near-death moment at a time.

Still, anything was better than being Gideon’s “caged bird”.

His voice still rang in her ears sometimes. Slurred threats. Pet names that made her stomach twist. Fingers that gripped too tightly, like she was just a doll to be posed and praised.

She hadn’t told anyone, not even herself — but he’d nearly crushed her once. Drunk. Angry. She’d said no to something. He didn’t remember it the next day.

But she did. She remembered everything.
==
The next morning, she rode beneath a produce van, clinging to the bracing of the undercarriage like a spider. The trip was shorter this time — maybe fifteen miles — until the van stopped at a diner off the main road. She dropped down into the weeds, waited, then crept toward the building.

The Pine Needle Café, the sign said. Blue script. Peeling paint. Smelled like bacon and desperation.

She slipped inside through the hinge of the screen door, narrowly avoiding a boot. The inside was loud. Forks clinking. Waitresses shouting orders. The scent of maple syrup and frying sausage made her stomach ache with hunger.

She darted under the counter, heart in her throat.

That’s when she saw the backpack. Unzipped. Resting on the floor against a table leg.

Canvas. Olive green. Lightly scuffed. A patch stitched to the side: TRAIL RIDGE ’19.

She hesitated. Looked around. Then climbed in — fast, careful, invisible.

She thought it was just a bag, and she could just slip out when the owner of it didn’t notice.

She had no idea it belonged to the man who would change everything.
====
A bit prior to Darla’s arrival

The Pine Needle Café was the kind of place that smelled like old grease and hot sugar, and Kyle liked that. It reminded him of places his mom used to take him after church — cheap coffee, friendly waitresses, chipped mugs that still said “World’s Best Dad” even if the owner had never been one.

He’d pulled in half an hour ago, after a long stretch of back road that gave his GPS a stroke. The kind of highway where the trees lean too close to the shoulder, and the billboards advertise gun shows and revival tents in the same breath.

Now, seated at the corner booth with cracked red leather seats and a table that wobbled just slightly to the left, Kyle looked… tired.

Not the kind of tiredness you sleep off but the kind that hangs from your bones.

He dropped his canvas backpack to the floor beside his boot. Inside were the essentials: change of clothes, a bottle of water, a notebook filled with half-finished letters to no one, and the envelope from his mom. Still sealed.

He’d almost opened it last night in Aunt Denise’s spare room, but something had stopped him.

There was still time.

Instead, he rubbed his eyes, ordered black coffee, and leaned his head back against the booth.

The urn was in the truck. He never brought it inside places like this — too risky. Too personal. It sat in the glove box, wrapped in one of his mother’s old bandanas, tucked in like a sleeping child.

She used to make fun of these places.

“This ain’t food, baby, it’s diesel in a skillet. But it’ll keep you full.”

He missed her voice most in places like this. Where the world didn’t pause for grief, didn’t offer a moment of silence — just the clink of forks, the sizzle of bacon, the scratchy drawl of country radio overhead.

A waitress passed by — mid-40s, tired smile — and refilled his coffee without asking. Kyle nodded in thanks.

He pulled out the map he’d scribbled on the night before. The Rockies were circled in blue pen. Route highlighted. But Louisiana wasn’t even marked. It was supposed to be a pit stop. A courtesy. Nothing more.

Now, he wasn’t so sure what to make of the southern pit stop. He just sipped his coffee, lost in thought, tapping his fingers against the table to the rhythm of some half-remembered song.

Somewhere behind his ribs, the ache of missing her pulsed steady.

And somewhere, deep in his bag, Darla curled into the pocket of a stranger’s life — unaware that she’d found the one man in Louisiana who wouldn’t try to break her.
====
Back to Darla

The interior of the backpack was musty with road dust and the faint scent of cedar. A travel-sized deodorant lay like a fallen pillar beside a half-crushed protein bar. The inside was surprisingly tidy, organized the way someone did things because they had to, not because they cared about being neat.

Darla crouched low in a side pocket lined with mesh, trying to stay quiet.

She could hear his voice now — deep, gentle, talking to the waitress about the weather and directions to the Rockies. The Rockies. Her stomach clenched.
What were the odds?

He was a full-sizer. That much she’d gathered. Northern accent, maybe? Not Southern like the drawls she was used to dodging. His tone wasn’t sharp. No edge of authority. Just… tired. Like hers.

She could leave. She should leave. The zipper was cracked open, the sunlight bleeding through like a beckoning hand. She took a step. Then another.

One more and she could leap. Slip under a chair. Hide under a table leg and bolt out the door.

And then—zzzzp. The zipper closed behind her.

A heavy finger and thumb had pinched the tab shut, sealing her in without malice, without even knowing.

Darla froze. “Shit!” she whispered. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Her voice was tiny, muffled by canvas and guilt.

She pressed her palm against the mesh, the breath catching in her throat. Why had she waited? Why had she hesitated?

She’d been sizing him up. Listening. Debating. Like she had a choice. Like there was time.

Now she was locked in a stranger’s pack like a stowaway. Just another piece of gear.

“You’re getting sloppy!” she muttered to herself, punching the pocket wall with a fist smaller than a thumbtack. “You don’t have time to be curious.”

The backpack shifted — slung over a shoulder. She tumbled against a rolled-up flannel shirt and bit down on a startled yelp.

He was moving. Not to the bathroom. Not to the counter. He was walking.

Darla pressed herself into a fold of fabric, breathing shallow, trying to be nothing.

She had no clue who he was.

But she hoped — for once — that someone out there might show mercy.

Because if he found her and panicked… she’d be crushed by a well-meaning hand or handed off to someone worse. The world didn’t do second chances for people her size. Not usually.

Still… something about his voice… the rhythm of his breath…

Maybe, just maybe this wouldn’t be the end.
===
Meanwhile at the Heston household that same morning…

The sun rose hot and unfeeling over the Heston house, the same as it did every day. But inside, something was very wrong.

Margo Heston had just dropped a thimble of tea. It shattered against the tile in a splash of chamomile and ceramic dust. Her hands trembled as she stood in the doorway to Darla’s cabinet — the custom-built glass-and-wood structure they called a “living space” but treated like a display.

The bed was empty. The blankets were ruffled. The miniature lamp was off. And the velvet-lined ladder her father had fashioned — more for show than function — was knocked over on its side.

“Jim.” Margo called, her voice flat, dazed. “She’s gone.”

From the living room, her husband grunted. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean she’s not here.”

The silence that followed was too still. Like the air itself had paused, waiting to see
what he’d do.

Jim pushed himself off the recliner with a grunt, beer belly leading, the same grease-stained work shirt he'd worn the day before clinging to him in the Louisiana heat.

When he saw the empty case, his face changed.

First confusion. Then slow, simmering rage.

He opened one drawer. Then another. Checked the trapdoor in the cabinet’s base that led to the ventilation tunnel he always said he’d seal up “next weekend.” He pulled off the back panel, fingers shaking.

Nothing. Just dust and the faint trace of peppermint oil — something Darla used to soothe herself, and now a scent he’d come to associate with stubbornness.

“Goddamn it.” he whispered. Then louder: “Goddamn it!”

As the Hestons worried about how they would deliver the news, The knock came fifteen minutes later.

Margo opened the door to find Howard Marsh and his son, Gideon, standing in the driveway like judges at the gates of hell.

Howard wore his usual Sunday blazer, his hair slicked back, face unreadable. But Gideon — Gideon looked pissed.

“Where is she?” Gideon barked, storming past Margo without waiting.

“Gideon, please.” Margo said weakly, but she was invisible to him now.
He made it to the cabinet in seconds. Saw the mess. The emptiness. The crooked lamp.

“You let her escape?” he said, turning to Jim, eyes wild.
“How the hell do you lose a four-inch tall woman?!”

Jim’s jaw tightened.

“She’s been… restless lately. But she’s not thinking clearly. She won’t get far.”

Howard didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His disapproval came cold and precise.

“This arrangement was our guarantee, Jim. I don’t have to remind you what’s at stake here. If my board gets wind that you can't keep your own daughter in line, that promotion is dust.”

“I’ll find her.” Jim said through clenched teeth. “She can’t have gone far.”

Gideon scoffed. “You better hope not. 'Cause if I find her first, she won’t want to run again.”

Margo flinched at that and nobody noticed.

Gideon left first, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the plates in the kitchen.

He got into his truck, peeled out, tires screaming against pavement. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight the leather creaked.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he muttered, scanning the roads. “You think you’re better than me.”

He didn’t care how small she was. She was his and he was going to get her back.

Meanwhile, Jim sat back down at the table, face in his hands. Not angry anymore — just numb.

Margo didn’t speak. She knelt and began wiping up the spilled tea, slowly, deliberately, like if she cleaned well enough, maybe they’d go back to yesterday.

Neither of them said the thing that hung between them like a storm cloud: She ran, not just to be free — but to escape them.
====
Kyle parked the truck in the shade of a tree just off a quiet gas station lot. The air was thick with heat, and the dashboard read ninety-eight. He leaned over to unzip the side pocket of his backpack, half-looking for his phone charger and half-searching for the growing itch at the back of his mind.

Something had felt off since he left the café.

As he tugged the zipper down, the pocket moved. Not like something had shifted in transit — not a water bottle rolling or socks settling. It moved like it breathed.

He froze. Then, slowly, he opened the flap all the way and looked inside.

Something was crouched in the corner of the compartment — small, delicate, human. A woman no taller than four inches stood there, her shoulders tense, her dark brown braid clinging to her back with static. She wore a light tan dress, frayed at the hem, and over her shoulder was a tiny sack made from what looked like scrap fabric.

And in her hands — a sharpened toothpick. Held like a spear.

Kyle jerked back with a startled grunt. “Holy shit—!”

The little woman didn’t flinch. She planted her feet and kept her tiny spear trained on him, her expression hard, jaw set.

“Don’t scream.” she said firmly. Her voice was high but clear, steady, with the kind of authority that didn’t match her size.

Kyle blinked, heart still thumping. “I—no. I’m not. I swear.” He slowly raised his hands and palms out. “I just… I didn’t know anyone was in there.”

“You zipped it before I could get out.” she said. Her eyes never left him.

Kyle looked back at the backpack, then at her again. “Damn. I’m sorry. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get stuck.” she replied flatly.

He breathed out, then crouched down beside the seat to be more level with the opening. “Okay. Let’s try this again. My name’s Kyle. Kyle Downes. I’m not gonna hurt you, alright?”

The little woman studied him with suspicion in her eyes. After a long moment, she spoke again, quieter this time.

“Darla.”

He nodded slowly. “Nice to meet you, Darla. I, uh… can’t imagine this was part of your plan.”

She gave a dry, humorless snort. “You could say that.”

Kyle scratched the back of his neck. “Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

“Water.” she said immediately, her tone still guarded but less rigid now.

He moved carefully, twisting the cap off his water bottle and pouring a few drops into the plastic lid. With slow, deliberate movements, he placed it just inside the backpack.

“No hands.” he said gently. “No sudden moves.”

Darla crept toward the lid, her little feet making no sound on the nylon interior. She crouched beside the cap and began to drink — small, controlled sips. She didn’t look up until she was done.

Kyle was still there, watching her. Not gawking. Just… observing. Like she wasn’t some oddity. Like he was trying to understand.

“You always carry a spear?” he asked, voice soft.

“Only when I expect trouble.” she answered without missing a beat.

He gave a slight grin. “Can’t blame you. You’ve got good instincts.”

She slung the tiny sack off her back and sat down next to it, keeping her weapon close.

“You’re taking this better than most people would.” she said after a long moment.

Kyle tilted his head. “Well, you’re not screaming. So I figured I shouldn’t either.”

That earned the smallest lift of her brow. Maybe the beginning of a smirk. But she said nothing.

“I’m just trying to get to Colorado.” he added. “Didn’t expect a passenger, but… I’m not kicking you out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not sure if I’m staying.” she said.

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

They sat in silence for a few beats. The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, cicadas buzzing outside. It wasn’t comfortable — not yet. But it wasn’t hostile either.

A line had been crossed. A barrier lowered. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Darla didn’t feel watched.

She felt seen.

[DocRick]

Nice story thus far. I like your style of writing. Easy to read and flows very naturally.

[ensmallen]

Nice change of pace. Great world-building and showing what the characters are about. Already want one of them dead.

[Firewall]

Nice story thus far. I like your style of writing. Easy to read and flows very naturally.

Thanks,Doc!

Nice change of pace. Great world-building and showing what the characters are about. Already want one of them dead.

Lol I see Gideon already has a fan. My objective was to make him just....awful.

[DocRick]

My interpretation of the "backpack passenger discovery" scene.

[Firewall]

My interpretation of the "backpack passenger discovery" scene.

I would say that is pretty close to what Darla looks like.

[DocRick]

My interpretation of the "backpack passenger discovery" scene.

I would say that is pretty close to what Darla looks like.

I think she'll look much better after Kyle gives her a nice bubble bath.

[Firewall]

Chapter 2: Journey to the West

Darla had curled back into the corner of the backpack. Her water was finished. The makeshift spear rested across her lap now, gripped loosely, more habit than threat.

Kyle sat in the driver’s seat, turned slightly toward her, his elbow propped on the console. He hadn’t started the truck again. Something in him told him not to rush it — not this.

She was still watching him. Not with fear anymore. Not entirely. With calculation. Like someone who'd spent two years learning the hard way that trust was something earned with time — or not at all.

After a few minutes of quiet, he finally spoke. “You’re not the first tiny I’ve met.” he said.

Darla’s brow rose. “No?”

He shook his head. “Not many, but… yeah. One used to come through the warehouse back in Pennsylvania. Delivery girl. Used a glider strapped to a drone. Badass, actually.

We had to leave little platforms out for her to land on.”

Darla gave a small nod. “Courier tinies get around. They’re usually left alone.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t take shit from anybody.” he said with a faint smile. “Used to cuss out the forklift drivers if they parked too close to her loading zone.”

That pulled a small smirk from Darla. “Smart.”

He nodded. “You, though… I don’t think you’re on a delivery route.”

“No.” she said flatly.

Another pause. “Were you hitching out of Monroe?” he asked, cautiously.

She tensed.

“Didn’t mean that like an interrogation.” he added quickly. “Just… I was in that diner maybe half an hour before you showed up in my bag. Not a lot of tiny traffic out this far.”

Darla looked away, her fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel.

“Monroe.” she said finally. “Yeah. I was near there.”

Kyle didn’t press. Just gave her a slow, respectful nod. He could feel the edges of something bigger behind her silence — something she wasn’t ready to offer yet. That was fine.

“I’m headed to Colorado.” he said instead. “Spreading my mom’s ashes. Scenic route. Might take a few days.”

Darla looked back at him. “You drive alone a lot?”

“Lately? Yeah.”

She studied his face. His posture. The way his hands never hovered too close to the bag.

Then: “Why haven’t you asked what I’m running from?”

Kyle blinked. “Because you haven’t offered to tell me.”

Another beat. Her eyes didn’t leave him.

“And because.” he added, “I figure if you’re in my bag, hiding from whoever’s back there… it’s probably something bad. And not my business unless you want it to be.”

Darla looked down. Her knuckles relaxed. The spear slid to the side.

She exhaled slowly. “That’s a first.”

Kyle tilted his head. “That sounds like it shouldn’t be.”

Her mouth pulled into a tired, bitter line. “You’d be surprised.”

A long silence settled between them. Not heavy — just real.

Kyle leaned back against the headrest, letting it hang there.

“If you want to ride with me a while.” he said finally, “you can. I won’t ask where you’re going. Or why. Just… let me know if I need to open the bag next time before I zip it.”

That drew a quiet sound from her — not quite a laugh. A breath through her nose.
Amused. Surprised.

“I’ll let you know.”

Kyle nodded once, satisfied. “Alright.”

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. Outside, the road stretched west — long, empty, full of possibility.

Inside the pack, Darla reached over and adjusted her sack. She didn’t thank him. Not yet.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like cargo. She felt like a passenger.
==
The sun was already dipping below the treeline by the time they pulled into a small roadside motel on the west end of Shreveport. The sign buzzed faintly, one of the letters half-lit, reading “E-Z REST – WE GOT COLD A/C” in flickering orange.

Kyle parked the truck, checked them in with cash, and carried his things inside a ground-floor room that smelled faintly of pine cleaner and long-gone cigarette smoke.

Darla stayed tucked inside the backpack while he unlocked the door. She’d learned quickly that visibility — even with someone decent like Kyle — came with risk. Motel clerks had eyes. So did security cameras.

Only once the door clicked shut behind him did she climb out.

The room had one bed, a small table with a dusty lamp, and a TV bolted to the dresser. Nothing fancy. But to Darla, it looked like space. Freedom. Quiet.

She set up on the nightstand, unpacking her satchel methodically — like she always did after a long ride. Needle. Thread. One matchstick. A tiny spool of wire. Toothpick spear. She laid it all out in neat rows.

Kyle dropped onto the bed with a groan, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hell of a long day.” he muttered.

Darla didn’t respond right away. Just gave a nod from her perch on the table.

He toed off his boots, cracked open a water bottle, then reached into his duffel for something.

An urn. Simple. Matte black. A soft gray bandana wrapped around it like a blanket.
Darla’s breath caught at the sight of it.

Kyle didn’t speak as he set it down on the bedside table. He just unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers, then sat beside it, elbows on knees, head bowed.

He stayed like that for a long moment. Still. Silent.

Darla stepped to the edge of the nightstand, her voice softer than usual.

“Is that her?”

Kyle didn’t look up. But he nodded. “ Yeah, my mom.”

Darla took a few slow steps forward. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not.” he said. His voice was low. Honest. “She died a few weeks ago. Pancreatic cancer. She didn’t tell anyone till it was stage four. Wanted to go fast. Said the slow kind of dying made people selfish.”

Darla was quiet. Then: “She sounds tough.”

Kyle huffed a short, humorless laugh. “She was. Scary sometimes. But she raised me on her own. Did the best she could.”

He leaned back, resting against the headboard now, eyes on the ceiling.

“Her last wish was to be scattered in the Rockies. She always wanted to go but never made it. So now… I’m taking her.”

Darla watched him from the table. She could see it now — the heaviness behind his voice, the way he carried himself. Not like someone proud of what he was doing. But someone who was barely holding it together himself.

She understood that. She sat down cross-legged near the edge, her hands in her lap.
“My mom cried when I shrank.” she said. “Like, actual sobbing. For days. But not with me. Just near me. Like I’d died and no one told her I was still breathing.”

Kyle turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. No pity. Just quiet recognition.

“That’s the worst part, isn’t it?” he said. “Being alive and feeling like you’re already gone to them.”

Darla nodded once. “Yeah.”

They didn’t talk much after that.

Kyle turned on the TV for background noise — some travel show playing to an empty room. Darla curled up inside a dry washcloth folded like a blanket, tucked just beside the lamp. The urn sat between them both — a silent reminder of the people they’d lost, and the ones who never really saw them to begin with.

For the first time, Darla didn’t just feel safe in Kyle’s presence but also understood.
====
Meanwhile, The sky was overcast above the Pine Needle Café, a haze of gray humidity rolling in from the east. It clung to everything — the awning, the windows, the backs of
necks. The kind of Louisiana air that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.

Gideon Marsh leaned against the hood of his black Silverado in the parking lot, one boot up on the bumper, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a short-sleeved button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Designer. Expensive. Sweat already blooming under the collar.

He took a drag and exhaled slowly, eyes narrowed.
He’d been to five gas stations, three parking lots, and one rural post office. Nothing.

Either she was still hiding… or someone was helping her.

That second thought made his jaw clench.

He flicked the ash onto the pavement, then stomped the cigarette out under his boot. The tiny embers scattered like sparks — not unlike Darla had, when she vanished from his grip.

He walked into the café, the bell above the door jingling.

It was quieter now than it had been the day before. Morning rush was over. A couple of old men nursed coffee at the far booth, and a teenage waitress was wiping down a table near the window.

Gideon headed straight to the counter, all smooth grin and practiced charm.

“Morning.” he said, flashing his badge — not a real one, but the kind security firms handed out to entitled men who wanted to play cop. “Private investigator. Looking for someone.”

The woman behind the counter — mid-fifties, name tag read “Sandy”

“I’m lookin’ for someone. I have a hunch that she may had come through here. Her parents are mighty worried about her.” Gideon pitched to her.

Sandy, the waitress had seem the determination in his eyes. “Well, this town is definitely not safe for a little woman to roam around in. How can I help?”

Gideon returned her question with a small grin. “Has anyone out of place stopped through here?”

Sandy thought about it for a moment before replying. “Can’t say they have.”
Somewhat satisfied with that answered, he started to turn towards the exit to head back out. “Perfect. Thank you, Mam”
===
After informing the Hestons of his findings, Gideon leaned against the grill of his spotless Silverado, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other slowly turning a cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t smoking it yet — just letting it dangle, savoring the ritual.

His shirt was pressed, buttons popped open at the collar like he’d walked out of a Southern Living ad. Aviator sunglasses sat perched on his nose, reflecting the dusty gravel lot. He looked good. Always looked good. Even when his patience was wearing thin.

He finally lit the cigarette and took a drag, exhaling through his teeth as he looked toward the rusting sign of the Pine Needle Café.

She’d been here. He knew it. The pieces fit too neatly. Truck routes. Diners. Tiny footprints, so to speak.

Gideon let out a low breath, thumb twitching against the lighter in his hand.

“You think you can crawl outta my life like a damn bug, Darla? Nah. You were given to me.”

He didn’t say it loudly, just under his breath, like an itch in his thoughts. And it wasn’t about missing her — not really. He didn’t love Darla. Hell he didn’t even particularly like her. But she was his. A prize in a velvet cage. Something unique he could dangle at the end of a conversation to hook attention.

Most women didn’t want to stick around after two drinks and his first lie. But show them a four-inch “wife” in a glass case and suddenly they were all leaning in, asking questions. Intrigued. Impressed.

“She’s sweet, she doesn’t talk much, and she fits in your jacket pocket,” he’d say with a wink.

It would be always got a laugh. Sometimes a number.

Darla was never more than that to him. A toy. A conversation piece. A mark of status for a man who had nothing else interesting to say.

And now she’d run.

He dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his boot, jaw clenching as he crossed the lot toward the café door.
==
Inside the Pine Needle Café, the place was quieter now than yesterday. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a yellowed glow over cracked vinyl booths and ketchup-streaked napkin holders.

The woman behind the counter — Sandy, the manager — looked up from her crossword as the bell above the door jingled.

“Back again?” she asked, clearly unimpressed.

Gideon offered his most charming smile, slipping off his sunglasses. “Ma’am. Hate to bother you again, but I’m still lookin’ for the girl I mentioned and I figured I try one more time.”

Sandy sighed. “Told you earlier sir. Don’t remember seein’ any tiny.”

“Yeah I know.” Gideon said, resting a hand on the counter, voice dipping into that practiced Southern ease. “But maybe your cameras caught something your eyes missed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“I’d really appreciate it if you let me take a look.”

Sandy stared at him for a long moment. “This some kind of domestic thing?”

Gideon’s smile didn’t crack. “It’s complicated.”

She gave him a look. “That ain’t a no.”

Still, she disappeared into the back, muttering something under her breath. He heard the clack of keys. Ten minutes passed.

When she came back out, she had a USB stick in one hand.

“Your girl? Real quick. Popped out from under the counter near the coffee machine. Ran like hell toward the door.”

Gideon’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “And?”

“And one of the cameras caught her heading west. Out into the parking lot.”

“On foot?”

Sandy nodded. “No vehicle. Which means she likely hitched. Or crawled into somethin’.
We’ve had a few do that. Not uncommon.”

He pocketed the USB. “Appreciate it.”

“Didn’t say you could keep it.”

“I’ll return it.”

She snorted. “No you won’t.”

As he stepped out into the heat, Gideon slid the drive into his laptop on the front seat of the truck. Fast-forwarded through grainy footage. There she was. Tiny flash of movement, just under a stool — a streak of tan fabric and dark hair.

Gone in seconds. But the direction was clear: She was heading west. That narrowed it down.

Back in the truck, he leaned back in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. The AC blew stale cold air across his face.

“You’re not gonna get far, Darla.” he muttered.

“You think they’re gonna treat you better out there? You think anyone out here sees you as more than a bug?”

He scoffed and threw the truck into gear. “You had it good. You had me.”

He pulled onto the road without signaling, tires kicking up gravel. His jaw was set, hands gripping the wheel too tight.

She could run but he was going to find her. And next time, she wouldn’t get the chance.
====
The first thing Darla noticed when she woke up was the smell of fresh coffee.
It drifted in soft and slow, carried on the low hum of the motel room’s air conditioner.

The second thing she noticed was the quiet — not the anxious kind she’d lived in for the past two years, but the still, unbothered kind. The kind that came from a place with locked doors, drawn blinds, and no one yelling down the hallway.

She shifted beneath her makeshift blanket — a folded washcloth that still smelled faintly of detergent and pine cleaner — and stretched, joints popping in miniature.

On the nightstand, sunlight pooled in through the slit in the curtain. Her tiny satchel lay by her side, untouched. Her spear leaned gently against a chipped lamp base. Nothing had been moved. Nothing rifled through.

Kyle hadn’t even come near her during the night.

When she sat up and glanced toward the bed, he was already awake — sitting on the edge in a faded gray t-shirt, hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup, legs bare below the knees. His hair was a mess. His expression soft.

He looked at her, not startled, not overly cheerful — just present.

“Morning.” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

Darla rubbed her eyes. “You get any rest?”

“Some.” he replied. “Didn’t want to move too much. Was afraid I’d knock something over and send you flying.”

She gave him a look. “I’m sturdier than I look.”

Kyle nodded. “That I believe.”

She stood slowly, stretching her arms above her head, then walked toward the edge of the nightstand. “What time is it?”

“It is a little after seven.”

“And we’re still heading west?”

“Unless you say otherwise.”

Darla looked at him for a long beat. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“That’s alright.” he said. “We’ve got time.”

He took a sip of his coffee, then motioned toward the small bag of motel breakfast food beside him. “I grabbed a few things from the lobby. There’s a muffin top about your size if you’re hungry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Was it sealed?”

He smiled. “It was. I’m not trying to poison you.”

She made a thoughtful sound and walked to her bag, pulling out a sliver of protein bar from her stash. “I’ll stick with what I packed. Just in case.”

“That is fair.” Kyle said. “You’ve got better instincts than I do.”

He stood and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain open just enough to glance outside. Parking lot empty, save for his truck and a beat-up minivan.

“All clear.” he muttered.

“You expecting someone?” Darla asked.

Kyle hesitated a second too long. Then, “Not really. Just careful.”

She nodded slowly, but she noticed the flicker in his jaw. The edge of tension behind the easy tone. Something had shifted since last night. The conversation about his mom had opened something in him — but maybe also reminded him of what he was still carrying.

Darla walked closer to the edge, watching him watch the world.

“You don’t talk much about her.” she said quietly.

“My mom?” he asked.

“No.” she said. “Whoever it was that made you like this. Guarded. Careful.”

Kyle exhaled through his nose and gave a soft chuckle. “That list’s longer than a Louisiana summer.”

“Mine too.”

He looked back at her then. Really looked. And something passed between them in the stillness —real. Honest stillness.

“Thanks for not bolting in the middle of the night.” he said.

“Thanks for not zipping the bag this time.” she replied.

That earned a small laugh from him — the first genuine one she’d heard.

He stepped away from the window, pulling on his flannel shirt from the back of the chair. “You need anything before we hit the road?”

She shook her head, hoisting her satchel over her shoulder. “Just space. And maybe fewer bumps this time.”

Kyle offered a smirk. “No promises on the bumps but you can have your space.”

They packed in silence. Calm. Unhurried. As if, for the first time in a long time, neither of them was sprinting from something. Not in that moment.

But the world outside the motel hadn’t changed. And somewhere, not far behind, Gideon was slowly closing the distance.
==
The road ahead stretched long and winding, pine trees lining both sides like silent sentinels. Kyle’s truck hummed steadily along the state highway, dashboard dust catching in the sunlight. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it had grown companionable, easy. The kind that didn’t need constant conversation.

Darla sat in her usual spot — a foam-lined cupholder converted into a makeshift seat, her legs crossed, satchel beside her. She was sipping from a water cap, mind half-focused on the blur of trees and towns rolling by.

Then she froze. Her hand hovered in the air, the realization blooming across her face in slow horror.

“Shit!” she whispered.

Kyle glanced down at her. “Something wrong?”

“My voice amp.” she said. “It’s gone.”

He blinked, processing. “The little speaker thing?”

Darla nodded, frustration flaring at her temples. “I must’ve left it at the motel. I had it on the nightstand… I didn’t clip it to my bag.”

Kyle winced. “Damn.”

She ran a hand through her hair, muttering to herself. “I can project without it, but it’s harder. Riskier. Most full-sizers can’t hear us clearly without one, and if I strain too much I get dizzy. And I’m not about to climb someone’s shoulder just to yell into their damn ear.”

Kyle gave a small nod, then tapped the steering wheel. “Alright. We’ll stop in a city. Somewhere with a Tiny supply shop.”

She looked up at him, surprised. “You know about those?”

“I’ve seen ‘em. They’ve got sections for gear, clothing, voice tech… some even have charging stations for gliders and all that.”

Darla tilted her head. “I thought most full-sizers didn’t notice unless they had to.”

“I notice stuff.” he said simply. Then added, “I worked loading docks. There was a Tiny who ran logistics. Picked up a few things.”

She leaned back slightly. “Okay. That’s… actually helpful.”

He gave her a quick glance, then cleared his throat. “Also, I mean—if you want to, while we’re there—you could pick up another outfit or something.”

Her brow arched. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Kyle blinked. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just meant—if you wanted something clean. That dress has been through hell. It’s not about the look. Just figured… fresh clothes might feel better.”

For a beat, there was silence and then Darla squinted at him. “You’re saying I stink.”

“I’m saying you’ve been crawling through truck axles and sleeping in gas station dumpsters,” Kyle said with a smirk. “It’s not exactly a spa retreat.”

She stared at him a moment longer, gauging — looking for a crack of condescension, a flicker of that tone so many full-sizers used when they talked about Tinies. But there was nothing in his expression but earnestness. Concern, even. And that same low, even energy he always gave her: no pity, no mockery. Just respect.

Eventually, she exhaled. “Alright. Maybe a change of clothes wouldn’t kill me.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re allowed to want to be comfortable. Doesn’t mean you owe anyone an explanation.”

She glanced at him. “That supposed to be some profound full-size wisdom?”

Kyle chuckled. “Nah. Just trying not to get stabbed with a toothpick again.”
Darla cracked the faintest grin.

“Well.” she said, folding her arms, “if they have pants that aren’t made from Barbie jeans, I might even forgive you.”

“I’ll consider it a win.” Kyle said.

Outside, the pine trees gave way to signs for the next town. A real city. The kind with traffic lights, sidewalks, and—hopefully—a shop where a four-inch runaway could find a new voice.
==
The city they stopped in wasn’t big, but it had the telltale signs of bigger than rural: chain restaurants, three lanes of traffic, and a strip mall anchored by a department store with half its neon sign burnt out.

They found the tiny shop tucked between a payday loan office and a vape store. Its sign was modest — “Little Living” — with a stylized logo of a smiling Tiny holding a shopping bag the size of a keychain. The storefront was small but not cramped. The window display held tiny mannequins wearing seasonal outfits, a glider charging station, and rows of voice amps and communication kits mounted like luxury earbuds.

Kyle held the door open, letting the gentle chime announce them.
Inside, the air was cooler, softer — scented faintly with lavender and static-free fabric softener. The left half of the store was full-size, for caretakers and friends. The right half dipped down into a terraced layout: glass steps, tiny displays, and a platform-sized welcome mat leading into the Tiny-accessible sections. A vertical screen played muted ads: waterproof satchels, safe capsules, personalized comm devices.

Darla stepped out from Kyle’s cupped palm onto the display counter’s tiny elevator platform and exhaled slowly. For a moment, it felt like a whole other world. One that didn’t just tolerate people like her — but actually expected them.
She looked over her shoulder. “You can wait over there.”

Kyle nodded and took a seat in the lounge corner, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler. “Take your time.”

She descended into the tiered Tiny section, eyes scanning. The first thing she went for was the voice amp. Sleek, bone-white, the size of a paperclip with a soft-gel mic and two adjustable bands. She picked it up with practiced fingers, clipped it around her ear, and tested it with a whisper.

Her voice buzzed clearly from the embedded directional speaker near the band.
“Much better.”

She grabbed a spare, just in case.

Next: clothes. A rack of options — soft knits, breezy linen blends, survival-friendly synthetics — all color-coded by function. Darla skimmed past the more ridiculous stuff (dresses shaped like doll cosplay, utility pants with six useless pockets) and chose a simple set: gray cotton joggers with a drawstring and a sage-green tank top. Comfortable. Lightweight. But all practical.

She also spotted a shelf of undergarments and picked up a pack — no fanfare, no hesitation. Just necessity.

Then shoes. Her bare feet had started to blister. She found a pair of dark brown boots with rubber soles and thin laces. Sturdy. Flexible. More like climber’s gear than fashion.
Kyle raised an eyebrow as she returned to the counter with her selections.

“Not bad.” he said. “You going hiking?”

“I might.” Darla replied, voice amplified now, smooth and level. “Or running. Again.”
She paid in small change — literal change. A scrap-sized credit chip she carried in a case made from a hollowed pen cap.

As Kyle held out his palm again for her to step into, she paused, adjusting the strap of her satchel.

“I’m not putting the new stuff on yet.” she said.

He nodded. “Want to wait ‘til the next stop?”

“I want a bath first.” she said bluntly. “Not a wipe-down in a paper cup. Not a splash in a sink. A real one. Something hot.”

“Fair enough.”

Her tone softened — not apologetic, but clear. “It’s not about being picky. It’s about feeling like a person again.”

Kyle looked at her, steady and sincere. “You don’t have to explain that to me.”

She stepped into his hand and sat cross-legged in the center.

“Good.” she said. “Because I’m not going to.”

He smiled, gently. “Alright. Let’s find you a bath.”

He lifted her carefully, tucked his receipt in his back pocket, and walked them back out into the sunlit noise of the city. Darla, for the first time since she left home, had clean clothes in her bag, a working voice amp on her ear, and shoes that could take her anywhere.

She still wasn’t safe. But now? She wasn’t fragile either.

[Firewall]

Chapter 3:Breaking Emotional Bread (Part 1)


By the time Gideon Marsh rolled into the city, the heat had climbed to its mid-afternoon peak. His Silverado pulled into the strip mall lot with a quiet growl, tires hissing as they passed over sun-softened asphalt.

He parked crooked, engine still running, and stepped out onto the pavement with sunglasses low on his nose and a storm brewing behind his teeth.

He scanned the storefronts quickly — payday loans, vape shop, pawn store — until his eyes landed on “Little Living.”

Bingo.

The glass door chimed as he entered, the cool rush of air conditioning brushing the back of his neck. Inside, it smelled like plastic and synthetic lavender. A girl at the front counter — maybe twenty, too chipper — greeted him with a forced smile.

“Welcome to Little Living.” she said. “Are you shopping for a partner, companion, family member, or—?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Gideon said, voice flat. “She would’ve been in earlier. Four inches. Dark hair. Tan dress. Maybe carrying a bag.”

The girl’s smile faltered just slightly. “Oh, um… We don’t give out customer info, sir—”

“I’m not asking for a credit history.” Gideon cut in. “I just want to know if someone like that was here. Not too long ago.”

The girl hesitated, glancing toward the back. She clearly wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to say. “I… think so. Yeah. We had a solo Tiny come through maybe two hours ago. She bought an amp, clothes, and shoes. She seemed self-sufficient.”

Gideon’s jaw twitched. “Was she alone?”

“I think someone brought her in.” she replied. “Full-size guy. Tall. Early thirties, maybe? I wasn’t at the register, sorry.”

“Did he say anything?” he asked.

“No. He waited near the sitting area. She did all her own shopping.”

Of course she did. He resisted the urge to sneer.

“Which direction did they go?” he asked. “Out the parking lot? On foot? In a vehicle?”

The girl shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, we don’t track people.”

Gideon took a slow breath through his nose, tamping down the urge to snap. As far as she has gone, that concludes that she had a ride.

Which meant she wasn’t just running now — she was helped and someone was sheltering her.

Someone who didn’t know what he knew. Didn’t understand what kind of trouble a Tiny could get into on the road. Didn’t understand that this wasn’t just some runaway pet or charity case.

This was his.

He turned toward the window, scanning the lot — all the possibilities. They could be anywhere now. Past the city limits. Half a day ahead, if they drove steady.

“Thanks.” he muttered, already halfway out the door.

The girl blinked. “Sure…”

He lit a cigarette before he was even back in the driver’s seat, dragging hard on it like he could burn away the irritation building in his lungs.

Darla had been right here. Just a few hours ago. Breathing the same recycled air. Shopping for shoes like she had nothing to hide.

He slammed the door shut and started the engine. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as he pulled back out onto the road.

“Keep running.” he muttered. “We’ll see how far that gets you.”

And then, with a humorless grin: “Let’s see how loyal your little chauffeur is.”

He pressed down on the gas, following westbound signs like they were breadcrumbs.
====
Meanwhile an couple of hours ahead, Kyle’s truck pulled into a modest travel stop just off the interstate — nothing special, just a diner, a gift shop, and a few gas pumps buzzing under the relentless sun. The lot was half-empty, with only a handful of semis parked in the far lanes and a family SUV running idle near the vending machines.

He threw the gear into park, stretched once, and looked down at the cupholder.
Darla sat cross-legged beside her satchel, idly tapping her new boots against the rim. The midday light glinted off the slim curve of her new voice amp.

He leaned back in his seat and tilted his head toward her.

“Well.” he said, “we won’t find a hotel for a few hours, but… if you’re okay with settling for a bowl bath, I can get you set up here.”

Darla raised an eyebrow. “A bowl bath?”

“Big cup. Warm water. Clean corner of the cab. I’ll set a timer and give you privacy.”
She looked at him for a second, then gave a small, approving nod. “Good enough.”

Kyle pulled a clean plastic food container from the supply bin behind his seat — unused, sealed — and filled it with a warm mix from the thermos and bottled water. He set it in a dry patch of the passenger floorboard, tucked into a soft towel and angled away from view.

He placed his smartwatch beside it and tapped the screen.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes.” he said. “If you need more time, just knock the watch over. I’ll be inside grabbing food.”

Darla crossed her arms. “You’re really going to give me the truck?”

Kyle smirked. “Don’t take off with it.”

“Pfft. I can barely lift a spoon.”

“Then I feel safe.”

He stood, grabbed his keys, then paused halfway out of the cab.

“Oh.” he added, “And I’ll see if I can find you some soap. Something that doesn’t smell like pine tar or motor oil.”

Darla lifted an eyebrow. “That… would be appreciated.”

He gave a casual salute and shut the door behind him.

Kyle then walked into the convenience shop adjacent to the diner, greeted by the smell of coffee, fryer grease, and industrial lemon cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he scanned the small health and beauty aisle wedged between coolers and novelty mugs.

Most of the travel soaps were unisex or aggressively “sport” scented. He grabbed a couple travel bottles to be safe, then spotted a mini pack labeled “Sensitive Skin – Lavender & Aloe – Feminine Wash.”

He hesitated only a second, then grabbed it too. It’s not weird. It’s just basic respect.

He paid in cash, tossed the bag over his wrist, then stepped toward the diner to grab a quick sandwich to go.

Darla was just getting started with her bath when he returned. Her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders, cheeks flushed from warm water and steam. Her new outfit — green tank top and cotton joggers — was folded beside her in the seat. Kyle had put an folder in-between them so he wouldn’t see anything.

She turned as he opened the door and stepped in. “You’re early.”

“Timer still had two minutes.” he said, lifting the bag. “Got food, and soap.”

He set the items down carefully beside her towel. Darla tilted her head, pulling out the little lavender bottle. She studied the label, then looked up at him with something unreadable in her eyes.

“Thanks.” she said after a moment. “You didn’t have to think of that.”

Kyle shrugged. “I figured if I was gonna offer a bath, I should at least do it right.”
She looked at the bottle again, then softly said, “You’re the first full-sizer who’s ever thought about that.”

Kyle didn’t have a response to that — not a good one anyway — so he just nodded and cracked open his sandwich.

“Take your time.” he said quietly. “No rush.”

And for a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Outside, trucks rumbled by. A crow called from a pole. The world kept moving. But inside that cab, between a warm towel and a bottle of body wash small enough to matter, Darla felt — not safe, exactly — but seen.

The cab of the truck was warm but shaded, the AC humming on low as Kyle stepped back in, balancing his sandwich and a bottled tea in one hand, the crinkle of a plastic bag in the other.

He shut the door with a soft thud and turned toward the passenger seat.

And there she was. Darla had changed — joggers rolled neatly at the ankles, tank top snug and soft-looking, her hair still damp in loose waves down her back. She’d tied a thin strip of cloth around her wrist like a bracelet, the tiniest scrap of personality worked into the otherwise practical outfit.

She was brushing out her hair with a needle comb, seated on a folded napkin like a cushion. No weapon in sight. Her satchel rested at her side, and for the first time since they met, she didn’t look like she was ready to run.

Darla tapped the folder a few times to let him know that she was done and he glanced over.

She just looked… comfortable.

Kyle froze for a second. Just a second. Not because she was small. He was used to that now. But because—Well. She was pretty.

Not in the obvious, in-your-face kind of way. But quiet, striking. Even wrapped in utility fabric and stubborn pride, she had a presence — like someone you didn’t realize you were watching until you couldn’t stop.

She turned, catching him mid-thought, and gave him a look that was equal parts bemused and suspicious.

“You starin’ or did your brain just lock up?” she asked, her voice thick with her southern drawl.

Kyle blinked, startled out of it.

“Shit—sorry. No. Just… wasn’t expecting you to be done so fast.”

She arched an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“You sayin’ I clean up good, Mr. Downes?” she asked, leaning back with a little half-smirk.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how warm it was in the cab. “I’m sayin’… yeah, maybe.”

Darla’s eyes narrowed just slightly — still cautious, always cautious — but her smile didn’t fade.

“Well.” she said, brushing one last strand of hair over her shoulder, “don’t let it go to your head. I’m still armed, y’know.”

Kyle laughed under his breath and held up his hands. “Noted.”

He handed her a bottle cap of fresh water and set his sandwich on the center console.

“You hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

He watched as she pulled out a sliver of dried fruit from her pack and settled in beside his cup. There was a small quiet between them, but not uncomfortable.

It felt like the kind of quiet that came after a choice — the kind where two people had decided, in their own ways, to trust each other a little more than they had yesterday.

Kyle took a bite of his sandwich, then looked down at her again.

Still pretty, fierce but still the same runaway. And maybe… not as alone as she thought.
==
The truck rumbled back onto the highway, tires humming over faded asphalt as pine trees blurred past the windows. The sun had softened now, dipping into the late afternoon hours. Warm light pooled across the dashboard, painting everything gold.

Kyle kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the cupholder where Darla sat, legs crossed, back against the rim. Her hair had mostly dried now; her voice amp perched neatly behind one ear. The new outfit suited her — tough, light, made to move.
For a while, they didn’t talk. The silence between them had become something calm. Companionable.

But eventually, Darla tilted her head back to look at him.

“So…” she said, voice low but clear, “what happens after the Rockies?”

Kyle glanced at her, one brow lifting. “After I scatter the ashes?”

“Yeah.”

He shifted in his seat. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

She gave him a look and Kyle huffed a short breath through his nose. “Alright. I’ve avoided thinking about it.”

Darla waited, letting him fill the space if he wanted to.

“I’m on bereavement leave.” he said after a beat. “Warehouse job. Shipping and receiving. Good benefits. Decent people. They gave me a month.”

“And how long’s it been?”

“Three weeks.” He scratched the back of his neck. “So technically, I’ve got maybe ten days left. Give or take.”

She let that settle, then asked gently, “You gonna go back?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The road stretched ahead, wide and mostly empty.

“I don’t know.” he admitted. “When my mom was dying, that place kept me sane. Gave me something to do with my hands. Now?” He shook his head slightly. “It just feels… far away. Like I’m not sure if the version of me who clocked in every morning is still around.”

Darla nodded slowly, watching him from the corner of the console.

“I know what that feels like.” she said.

“I bet you do.”

Another few minutes passed, filled only by the soft hum of tires and the occasional distant bird call from the trees.

“You got a plan?” Kyle asked finally, flicking his eyes toward her. “After all this?”

Darla took a slow breath. “Planning used to be my thing. I had a five-year map. Teaching career. Travel. Maybe a house one day.”

“What changed?”

She smiled without humor. “Becoming about four inches tall.”

Kyle winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You asked.”

She glanced out the window, watching the blur of treetops and open road.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” she admitted. “I’ve been running so long, I forgot what stillness felt like. I’m just… trying to figure out if I still want the same things.”

Kyle nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

And he did. More than he wanted to. Neither of them spoke for a while. But in that quiet, something unspoken settled between them. Not a plan. Not a promise.
Just a possibility. Two people on different ends of the dashboard, neither quite sure where they were going next. But for now they were going there together.

They drove for another hour past the city, the sky melting into rich streaks of blue and amber as the sun dipped low behind the treeline. By the time Kyle pulled into a quiet roadside rest area — one of those out-of-the-way places meant more for truckers than tourists — it was full dark.

He parked near the back, away from the buzzing lights and vending machines, and killed the engine. The only sounds were the ticking of the cooling engine, the whisper of wind through pine needles, and the soft click of Darla’s boots as she climbed from the cupholder to the dash.

He opened the windows halfway, letting in the fresh night air.

They didn’t say anything at first.

Kyle leaned back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the stars. Darla sat near the defrost vent, legs dangling over the edge like a woman sitting on the ledge of a rooftop. Her voice amp was off. Her voice, when it came, was small and quiet —
meant just for the space between them.

“I used to be loud.” she said.

Kyle turned his head toward her, listening.

“Before the shrinking.” she went on, “I used to be the one people listened to. I taught eighth-grade history. Big class. Tough kids. You had to own the room. I was good at that.”

He could hear the ache in her voice — not just nostalgia, but loss. The kind that carved deep.

“Then PRD happened.” she said, barely above a whisper. “And suddenly, I couldn’t even get someone’s attention without a device strapped to my head. People stopped hearing me. Stopped looking at me. I was either invisible or on display.”
She paused.

“My dad used to say I was ‘too sharp for my own good.’ After I shrank, he started calling me quiet. Obedient.” A bitter laugh. “He said it like it was a compliment.”

Kyle didn’t say anything at first. Just let it sit. Then, gently: “That’s not who you are.”

“No.” she said. “But it’s who they wanted me to become.”

He nodded slowly, gaze returning to the stars.

“My mom wasn’t good with words.” he said. “She raised me on her own. Worked nights at the hospital kitchen. Always tired. Always angry. But she was there. Kept the heat on. Kept me fed.”

“She sounds strong.”

“She was. But when the cancer hit, she started unraveling. Wouldn’t talk about it. Refused to tell anyone until it was too late. Like admitting it out loud would make it real.”

Darla was watching him now with her hands folded in her lap.

“I held her hand near the end.” Kyle continued. “Didn’t know what to say. Just sat there while she stared out the window like there was something out there waiting for her.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t know if she was proud of me. I think she tried to be. But we didn’t say that kind of stuff out loud. In our house, love didn’t come with explanations.”

Darla nodded, her voice gentle. “Neither did mine.”

They sat in silence again, the stars sharp and cold above them.

“You ever think about just… disappearing?” she asked.

“Every day.”

“Same.”

She lay back on the dash, arms folded behind her head. Her voice was softer now, smaller, not because of her size — but because she didn’t want it to carry.

“I don’t want to be someone’s symbol.” she whispered. “I don’t want to be brave or inspiring or tragic. I just want to be a person. A real damn person.”

Kyle’s eyes stayed on the night sky, but his voice was steady. “You are.”

The words weren’t heavy. They didn’t come with expectations. Just truth.

Darla didn’t answer right away. But when she finally did, her voice was different — not strained. Not sharp. Just soft. “Thanks.”

She sat up again, arms wrapped around her knees and looked down at him through the windshield glass.

“You ever think about not going back?” she asked.

Kyle looked up at her, really looked. “I think about it more every day.”

And that was all they needed to say. Outside, the world kept moving. But in the cab of a quiet truck, two people sat in the dark — not lost, not whole, but seen.
==
The next morning, the first thing Darla felt was the softness beneath her. Whatever it was, it was warm, steady and clean.

Not a corner of a napkin, not the stiff rim of a glove or the unforgiving vinyl of a dashboard. But something else entirely — thick, padded terrycloth folded into a nest, the kind that held warmth overnight and still smelled faintly of lavender soap.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the soft, early light filtering through the cracked window.

The “mattress” was a folded hand towel, clean and smooth, layered with a strip of cotton shirt fabric Kyle had carefully tucked over the top like a sheet. Her satchel was set neatly at her side. Her new boots were nearby, aligned just so.

For a moment, she just… lay there. Not on guard. Not calculating. Just still.
Kyle’s voice broke through the quiet — low, groggy, from the driver’s seat where he’d clearly slept upright again.

“Morning.”

She turned her head and saw him rubbing sleep from his eyes, one arm flopped across the steering wheel, a thin blanket still half-tangled around his shoulders.

“You sleep okay?” he asked.

Darla sat up and stretched her arms overhead with a soft grunt. “Better than I have in… a long time.”

He yawned and smiled. “Tried to get creative. You didn’t look too impressed with the cupholder anymore.”

She looked down at the towel, ran her fingers across the soft weave.

“It’s perfect.” she said, then after a beat, added, “Thank you.”

Kyle shifted and reached behind the seat, pulling out a little thermos and a bottle of water. “Didn’t know how you take your morning, but I’ve got lukewarm coffee and granola. Five-star stuff.”

She grinned and stood, brushing out the wrinkles in her tank top. “I’ll take the coffee.”
He unscrewed the thermos cap and carefully poured a small amount into a plastic lid.

The steam had faded, but the scent filled the cab — bitter, earthy, familiar.
Darla sat near the edge of the dash, cradling the cap like a soup bowl. “God, that smells like my classroom.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “You let your kids drink coffee?”

“No.” she said, smiling faintly. “But I did. Every damn day. Dark roast and desperation.”

He chuckled and leaned back against the door, sipping his own from the bottle.
The morning sun was creeping higher now, painting the horizon in soft pink and dusty orange. Outside, the rest area was still. The world hadn’t quite woken up yet. And for a few rare minutes, neither of them needed to run.

“Where to next?” Darla asked.

Kyle looked out the windshield. “There’s a turnoff near the Arkansas border. Scenic byway. Not much traffic. Might be a good place to breathe.”

Darla nodded slowly. “Breathe sounds good.”

They didn’t speak again for a while — just finished their makeshift breakfast and listened to the breeze through the cracked window. It wasn’t much but it was theirs.

The road bent west, rising into gentler hills as pine gave way to cypress and stretches of wild green. A state scenic byway sign flashed past, sun-worn and half-graffitied, but
Kyle turned anyway, taking the curve with a slow roll of tires on cracked asphalt.

They followed the winding road until it opened into a turnout that overlooked a low valley: fields gone golden in the late summer sun, a distant glimmer of water where a river cut through trees. The place felt forgotten — no picnic tables, no bathrooms, just a strip of shoulder and a view that didn’t ask for anything in return.

Kyle parked beneath a shade tree and shut off the engine.

Darla was already climbing out of her makeshift seat as he opened the door and stepped around to sit on the hood, coffee thermos in hand.

She climbed the dashboard with quiet ease now, boots soundless on the warm surface, and crossed to the driver’s side. He held out his palm, and she stepped in without hesitation.

He lifted her carefully, setting her down beside him on the hood. She sat, cross-legged, the breeze tugging at her loose hair.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Birdsong floated up from the trees below. Wind rustled through tall grass. Somewhere far off, a hawk cried out, circling invisible currents in the sky.

Darla stared out across the valley, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees.
“You ever think about what it would’ve been like.” she said quietly, “if none of this had happened?”

Kyle glanced at her. “PRD?”

She nodded. “All the time.”

Darla’s voice was steady, but softer than usual — not strained, just… real.
“I probably would’ve stayed in teaching. Maybe moved out of Louisiana. Gotten a dog. Or a little apartment over a bookstore.”

She smiled faintly. “God, that sounds like a cliché.”

“It sounds nice, actually.” Kyle said.

“I used to think I was going to be somebody.” she admitted. “Not famous. Not anything wild. Just… someone who made a difference. Even a small one.”

“You probably already did.”

She looked at him, not with skepticism — but something closer to quiet disbelief. Like she wanted to believe that but hadn’t let herself.

“I miss walking down a sidewalk without thinking about every single crack.” she said. “I miss being able to open my own doors. Buy my own food. Sleep in a bed where I didn’t have to worry about being stepped on.”

She let out a breath. “I miss my voice.”

Kyle turned toward her, one leg bent up on the hood. “You’ve got it back now.”

She shook her head. “Not the one this little amp gives me. My voice. The one that made eighth graders shut up and listen. The one that stood her ground in a staff meeting. The one that could say no to a man like Gideon and not be scared.”

She looked down at her hands. “I still don’t know where she went.”

Kyle was quiet for a moment, then said, “She’s not gone.”

Darla gave him a sideways glance.

“She’s tired. She’s been through hell. But she’s still in there,” he said. “I’ve seen her. Every day since I opened that backpack.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves above.

Darla looked back toward the horizon; lips pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders relaxed, just a little.

“I hate how much I want to believe that.” she whispered.

He didn’t push. Just stayed there beside her, the warmth of the hood beneath them, the open sky above.

“You don’t have to believe it all at once.” he said. “Just hold onto the idea. That’s enough for now.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Darla let herself feel something other than fear.

Not safety. Not yet. But possibility. She could rebuild herself. Slowly. On her terms. Starting with this. One valley. One sunrise. One person who didn’t want to fix her — just sat beside her while she healed.

[waffs]

“I’m looking for someone.” Gideon said, voice flat. “She would’ve been in earlier. Four inches. Dark hair. Tan dress. Maybe carrying a bag.”

The girl’s smile faltered just slightly. “Oh, um… We don’t give out customer info, sir—”

“I’m not asking for a credit history.” Gideon cut in. “I just want to know if someone like that was here. Not too long ago.”

The girl hesitated, glancing toward the back. She clearly wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to say. “I… think so. Yeah. We had a solo Tiny come through maybe two hours ago. She bought an amp, clothes, and shoes. She seemed self-sufficient.”

Oh stars, he's catching up. No no no...
(It does seem a little odd that he'd be gaining this quickly, given that he seems to be stopping every so often, looking for any tiny-aimed places, and popping in there, but eh. Tension like this is worth some strained suspension of disbelief.)

Someone who didn’t know what he knew. Didn’t understand what kind of trouble a Tiny could get into on the road. Didn’t understand that this wasn’t just some runaway pet or charity case.

This was his.

No. Bad Marsh. Go home and forget about Darla.

Most of the travel soaps were unisex or aggressively “sport” scented. He grabbed a couple travel bottles to be safe, then spotted a mini pack labeled “Sensitive Skin – Lavender & Aloe – Feminine Wash.”

I wonder if tinies have, effectively, sensitive skin, or if the effect is totally different.

But inside that cab, between a warm towel and a bottle of body wash small enough to matter, Darla felt — not safe, exactly — but seen.

But not the embarrassing kind of seen.

"I’m just… trying to figure out if I still want the same things.”

I feel like that's kind of a theme here.

Kyle nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Yeah, that's what I meant.

“I don’t want to be someone’s symbol.” she whispered. “I don’t want to be brave or inspiring or tragic. I just want to be a person. A real damn person.”

Kyle’s eyes stayed on the night sky, but his voice was steady. “You are.”

The words weren’t heavy. They didn’t come with expectations. Just truth.

Darla didn’t answer right away. But when she finally did, her voice was different — not strained. Not sharp. Just soft. “Thanks.”

I like that she seems to believe, at least a little. The way I read that, it's not just a "thanks for trying to make me feel better" - it's more "thanks for showing me that".

[Firewall]

Chapter 4: Breaking Emotional Bread ( Part 2)

The sun lingered just above the ridge line, casting gold over the valley like it was trying to preserve the hour. That soft, golden hour when things looked kinder than they really were. When the scars of the world blurred just a little at the edges.

Kyle leaned back on the hood of the truck, arms stretched out behind him, eyes half-closed in the light.

Darla remained where she was — small, still, silhouetted on the curve of the hood like a miniature sculpture cut from dusk.

She finally broke the silence, her voice low and even. “I used to be afraid of silence.”

Kyle glanced over, brow lifted.

“Grew up in a loud house.” she explained. “TV always on. Dad always yelling about something. My mother blasting music in the bedroom. If it was quiet, it meant something bad had happened. Someone got fired. Someone got drunk. Something was
broken.”

She tapped her fingers on her knee, watching a hawk circle far in the distance.

“I didn’t realize until recently how much I crave it now. Not the kind that’s lonely. The kind that feels like breathing room.”

Kyle smiled faintly. “I get that.”

He didn’t fill the silence after that. Just let it return, warm and whole.

Darla stood slowly and walked across the hood toward the base of the windshield. She sat on the metal ledge beside one of the old rubber stoppers, hugging her knees, gaze still lost to the valley.

“You think you’ll ever go back to Pennsylvania?” she asked.

Kyle’s eyes tracked a passing cloud. “I don’t know. My aunt’s down in Shreveport, but we were never close. She’s polite. Supportive in that Southern ‘God bless your heart’ kind of way.”

Darla smirked. “That’s a dangerous kind of support.”

“Exactly.” He looked down at his hands.

“Mom was it for me.” he said. “After her… I started realizing how small the world is when you don’t have someone waiting on the other end of it.”

Darla nodded slowly. “I think that’s what started to break me. The shrinking made the world big. But I started to feel small. Not just in body, but in existence.”

He looked at her, really looked — not with pity, but with a kind of reverence. She had a way of speaking that landed soft but carried weight.

“Then you crawled into my backpack…” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Not how I’d phrase that, but sure.”

“I’m just saying.” he continued, “you’re not exactly invisible.”

She let out a dry little laugh and tilted her head toward him. “Don’t start getting poetic on me, Downes. We’ve still got a few states to cross.”

He smiled. “Right. Texas hasn’t even tried to kill us yet.”

“God help us.”

The wind picked up a little, brushing through the trees below. Darla closed her eyes and leaned into it — just for a moment — like someone savoring a secret she hadn’t shared yet.

“I don’t know what waits for me out there,” she said, softer now. “But I know what I’m not going back to. And maybe for now, that’s enough.”

Kyle nodded, just once. “It is.”

They stayed like that a little while longer. Not touching. Not talking. Just being.

In the middle of nowhere, on the edge of everything, Darla and Kyle sat with the kind of silence that didn’t ask questions or offer promises.

The wind had settled. The sun hung low now, gold fading into soft violet, casting long shadows down the slope of the hill below. Kyle shifted slightly on the truck’s hood, stretching out his legs and resting his hands behind him on the warm metal. Darla sat nearby, silent but not tense — legs drawn in, chin on her knees, eyes on the treeline like she was trying to track something just out of sight.

Kyle’s voice broke the silence, careful and quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

Darla glanced over. “You just did.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “Alright, can I ask another something?”

She smirked faintly and gave a small nod.

He hesitated, then said, “Was your family… supportive? You know. After you shrank?”

The smile faded. Darla didn’t answer right away. She looked down at her knees, then out across the valley again, like she was making sure the air was safe to speak in.

“They weren’t cruel.” she said finally. “Not on the surface. They didn’t kick me out or pretend I didn’t exist. But… it was more like I became someone else’s problem.”

Kyle turned slightly toward her, listening, his expression soft.

“My mom kept trying to ‘handle’ me.” Darla went on. “Like I was a doll or a pet — wouldn’t let me do things for myself, even if I asked. Couldn’t let me try. She’d just… scoop me up, move me around, tuck me into places like I was some kind of fragile trinket. Like I’d break if I made my own decisions.”

She swallowed, voice steady but quieter now.

“My dad was worse. Not in the yelling way. In the businessman way.”

Kyle’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Darla didn’t answer at first. She shifted slightly on the hood, drawing a slow breath.

“He works for the Marsh family. Long time. Local oil distribution. Kind of guy who thinks a handshake is a contract and a daughter’s future is a form of currency.”

Kyle felt a flicker in his chest. “Go on.”

She looked at him, and there was steel in her eyes now — not anger, exactly, but something deeper. Worn. Real.

“When I shrank, it ruined their image. The perfect daughter, the one with the degree and the big future — suddenly four inches tall. Suddenly a liability.”

Her hands clenched around her knees.

“And then Gideon came into the picture. My dad’s boss’ son. Mid-thirties. Drinks too much. Smile like a snake.”

Kyle felt his jaw tighten.

“They arranged it.” she said, flat. “An engagement. Quiet. No press. Just a contract behind closed doors. My father would get a promotion, and the Marshes would get a media-friendly ‘progressive’ marriage to parade around when it suited them. And me?”

Her voice dropped. “I’d get gilded bars on a velvet cage.”

Kyle didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just looked at her — not with shock or pity, but something rawer. Something close to anger but aimed at all the wrong people in her life.

“Jesus, Darla.” he said quietly. “They just sold you off like cattle.”

She shrugged once, a tiny motion. “They called it a ‘favor.’ Said I should be grateful someone like Gideon still wanted me.”

“And you were supposed to marry him?”

“Tomorrow.”

Kyle exhaled, slow and deep. He rubbed a hand down his face, then looked at her with a fire that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

“You’re not going back.” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“No.” she said. “Not even if it kills me.”

He nodded slowly, voice low. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The last rays of sun stretched across the hood, brushing over Darla’s small frame like a spotlight — not for performance, but for recognition.

Kyle leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes still on her.

“I don’t know how anyone could look at you and think you were some kind of bargain chip.” he said. “You’re more together than most people I’ve met at full size.”

Darla looked at him — a flicker of something unguarded in her eyes. Then she smiled. Just slightly.

“Careful, Mr. Downes.” she said, “that sounded a lot like a compliment.”

“Wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

She let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. And there, on a quiet stretch of road with the world falling into shadow around them, Kyle finally understood something he hadn’t before: Darla hadn’t just shrunk. She’d been shrunk down by everyone around her. Forced to live small, think small, be small.

But she wasn’t. Not really. She was just waiting for someone to treat her like she still took up space.

The stars had begun to claim the sky by the time Kyle and Darla stepped down from the hood.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The world had grown quiet around them — that sacred, still kind of quiet only the countryside knew how to hold. No cars. No voices. Just cicadas and a soft wind whispering through tall grass.

Kyle kept his palm open near her, as he always did when she walked beside him. A courtesy now more than a habit. But this time, Darla had climbed in without a word. He didn’t notice anything unusual at first — just her sitting on his hand, light and calm, the weight barely enough to register.

Until he heard it. The faintest sound. Almost a hiccup. Not loud — not even fully voiced. But unmistakable.

Sobs.

He slowed to a stop halfway between the truck and the treeline, heart hitching.

“Darla?”

She didn’t look up.

Her body was turned slightly toward his fingers, one arm wrapped across her stomach, the other over her face — like she was trying to hold herself in.

“I’m sorry.” she choked out, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to…”

Kyle shifted slowly kneeling down beside the truck’s front tire so he could lower his hand without jostling her.

“Hey. No—none of that.” he said softly. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

Darla didn’t lift her head, but her breathing shook as she tried to pull herself back together — tiny, quiet inhales like someone trying to shove the pieces of herself back into a too-small frame.

“I held it together this whole time.” she whispered, trembling. “Through the running. The hiding. The not knowing if he was behind me. I kept telling myself I’d be fine, that I’d handle it. But now that I said it out loud—”

Her voice cracked. “Now it feels real.”

Kyle didn’t speak right away. He just curled his fingers slightly — not closing around her, but around the space, like a protective wall that said: ‘you’re allowed to break here’.

“It is real.” he said gently. “And it was awful. And it should never have happened to you.”

Darla sniffled, dragging the back of her tiny hand across her cheek.

“I didn’t think it would feel like grief.”

Kyle’s brow furrowed.

She swallowed. “Grief for the life I thought I was going to have. The one I planned for. The one that vanished the second I started shrinking and everyone started seeing me as something less.”

He nodded, his voice quiet. “That’s what it is. It’s loss. And you’re allowed to mourn it.”

She wiped at her eyes again, but this time slower, less frantic. Not trying to hide.

Just… letting it happen.

Kyle didn’t rush her. He didn’t fill the air with platitudes or false comfort. He just stayed right there, his hand steady beneath her, the curve of his palm like a shore against a tide she’d been holding in for too long.

Eventually, her breathing evened out.

The sobs faded to soft exhales. Her arms uncurled. She sat upright again, hair tousled and damp at the temples, eyes red but clear.

She looked up at him, voice small but steady. “Thanks for not… making it weird.”

Kyle gave her the faintest smile. “You’ve seen me try to dance while driving. This doesn’t even crack the top five weirdest moments between us.”

A short, quiet laugh slipped from her — just enough to ease the tension, just enough to say I’m still here.

They stayed there a moment longer, dusk folding around them like a blanket.

Then, with her fingers brushing gently across his thumb, she said, “Okay. I’m good.”

Kyle rose slowly, steady as ever, lifting her with care. “You don’t have to be,” he said.

But he didn’t press it. He just walked back to the truck, her weight light in his hand, the gravity of what she’d shared anything but.
==
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time they pulled into a roadside motel on the edge of a sleepy Oklahoma town. It wasn’t much — a one-story row of rooms with flickering vacancy signs and paint peeling off the corners — but it was quiet, clean enough, and far enough from the highway to feel hidden.

Kyle killed the engine, the headlights clicking off with a soft electric pop. The silence that followed was thick with crickets and the faint hum of a distant radio from the manager’s office.

He glanced at Darla, curled on the folded towel in the cupholder beside him. She was watching the motel door like someone assessing whether or not to trust the next step.

“You good with this place?” he asked.

She nodded slowly. “Better than a rest stop. Fewer hawks.”

Kyle chuckled softly, then got out and checked them in under a fake name. Just in case. He returned with a single room key and a half-hearted smile from the clerk, who hadn’t asked any questions.

Inside, the motel room was... functional. One queen bed. A chipped dresser. A small table under a buzzing ceiling light. But the sheets were clean, and the shower ran hot, and that was enough.

Darla waited until the room was locked before speaking again.

“Mind if I bathe again? Think that valley dust is still on me.”

Kyle pulled out the plastic basin and her tiny travel soaps without a word, setting it carefully on the dresser beside the lamp and draping a hand towel nearby like a privacy wall.

“I’ll grab a soda and give you ten.” he said. “Want anything?”

“Root beer if they have it.” she called from behind the towel. “And maybe a chocolate chip granola bar if the vending gods are kind.”

He left her to it, stepping into the night air with a tired roll of his shoulders.

When he returned, soda in hand, he found her already dressed in her joggers and tank top, hair brushed out and drying again. She stood on the edge of the dresser, toweling off her feet with a scrap of cotton, her tiny voice amp resting nearby like a discarded phone.

“Still alive?” she asked without looking up.

“Barely.” Kyle said, tossing her a mini root beer lid. “Machine didn’t eat my dollar, so that’s a win.”

She caught the drink cap and gave a half-smile. “We celebrate the little victories out here.”

As Kyle flopped down onto the bed with a tired grunt, Darla hopped from the dresser to the padded arm of the bedside chair, then climbed onto the table. From there, she made her way to the folded towel he’d left near his pillow — a clean corner, laid out like a cot.

“You, uh… planning to sleep again in the trucker lean?” she asked, glancing at how he was half-lounging, half-sitting.

“Nah. My back's got about one more night of that before it quits me.”
He laid back properly, hands behind his head. Darla tucked herself in, pulling the scrap of cloth he’d left her up to her chest.

“Thanks for making the bed again.” she murmured.

“Least I can do.”

A long silence stretched between them — not awkward. Just tired. Real.
After a while, Darla’s voice came, quieter than before.

“This is the first night in a long time I haven’t dreamt about running.”

Kyle opened one eye to look at her. “I’m glad.”

A pause.

“You trust me now?”

“I think I did the moment I stepped into your pocket and shopped for clothes.”

He smiled, even though she couldn’t see it from where she lay.

“You ever wish we’d met under different circumstances?” she asked.

“Sure.” he said, voice low. “But I don’t know if different circumstances would’ve made me listen like this.”

A breath. A beat.

“That matters.” she whispered.

And with that, Darla turned over, curling into her towel-blanket. Her breathing slowed. No amp. No fear. Just soft breath, even and steady.

Kyle listened until she was asleep. Then he turned his gaze to the dark ceiling above them and whispered a promise she’d never hear: “I won’t let them find you.”

Not if he had anything to say about it.
====
Meanwhile, The ash of Gideon Marsh’s cigarette hung long, unbroken, trembling at the end of the filter like it was too afraid to fall.

He stood outside the diner off Route 71, the same one he’d backtracked to after the truck stop clerk mentioned a “tiny girl running like hell across the floor.” Her description had been annoyingly vague — something about dark hair, bare feet, a satchel — but it was enough.

He’d stood at the back of the place and replayed the surveillance footage over and over, scrubbing through the grainy black-and-white like he was hunting prey in a fog.

She was fast and he hated that she was fast. And she had help. That was obvious now.

The cameras showed her vanishing near the entrance. No exit. No sight of her beyond that. Someone had picked her up — either on purpose or by pure dumb luck — and taken her west.

West. That was all he had.

No plate numbers. No faces. No make or model. Just a gap in footage and a growing ache in his jaw from how tight he was clenching it.

He flicked the cigarette, watching the ember arc through the dark.

“West.” he muttered. “West could be anywhere.”

But then again… it couldn’t.

Darla wasn’t the type to run without some sort of plan. Even scared, even cornered, she’d always been calculating — a trait that annoyed him when she was his, and downright infuriated now that she wasn’t.

He climbed into his sleek black sedan — polished, expensive, the kind of car that said don’t ask questions — and spread a road map across the passenger seat.

From Louisiana, heading west? Texas, obviously. Oklahoma. New Mexico. Colorado. All possible. But that last one…

He paused, tapping his finger on the Rocky Mountains.

She used to talk about Colorado. Not to him — God, no — but once, in passing to her mother during one of those family dinners he’d forced himself to attend for appearance’s sake.

Something about the clean air. Mountains “big enough to make you forget how small you feel.”

He’d rolled his eyes at the time. Now it stuck in his head like a splinter.

He leaned back, lit another cigarette, and cracked the window. The breeze was hot and dry, blowing westward like it was taunting him.

“Colorado.” he said under his breath. “Bet your pretty little feet are aimed right at it.”

He pulled out his phone and tapped in a few notes. He didn’t know who was driving her and that didn’t matter. Eventually, they’d need gas. Food. Sleep. And he’d be watching.

“I’ll find you, songbird.” he muttered with a smirk. “And when I do…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to. Because in Gideon Marsh’s mind, Darla was still his to cage. To hold. To show off. She just didn’t know it yet.

The cigarette smoldered in the ashtray of Gideon’s center console, curling smoke up into the stale heat of his car. He didn’t roll the window down this time. Let it stink. Let it sit with him.

He opened his phone, thumb hovering over a contact labeled simply: DAD.

The line rang twice before a voice answered — clipped, impatient. “Gideon.”

“She’s heading west.”

“Are you certain?”

“No.” Gideon said, voice dry. “But I’m not wrong. She disappeared near a truck stop outside of Alexandria. No sign of where she went, but if I were betting money? Colorado.”

There was a pause on the other end. “You’re sure it wasn’t staged?”

“If it was.” Gideon growled, “she found one hell of an accomplice. She hit the ground running like she was chasing freedom.”

“Because she was, son.” said the elder Marsh, voice flat. “You don’t seem to understand how these things work. You don’t let the deal see the cage. You gild it, wrap
it in lace, make her believe she’s lucky. You made her run.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “Hey, don’t pin this on me.”

“I’m not pinning. I’m reminding you that we had an agreement. You were going to keep her happy long enough for the ink to dry. Then we present the merger, the cross-platform PR. The Marsh and Heston families as symbols of modern integration in post-PRD America. A full-size/tiny marriage? That would’ve bought us headlines and policy favor for a decade.”

“She’ll come back.”

“Not if she gets as far as Denver.” Marsh senior snapped. “You know damn well Colorado’s one of the sanctuary states. If she files for independence there, we can’t touch her.”

Gideon rubbed his eyes, frustration spiking. “I’ll find her.”

“You better. Before her father finds out we’ve lost her.”

But Gideon had already opened a new contact. Heston Sr.

He hit call. It rang longer this time. Then: “Gideon.”

“She’s gone.” Gideon said. No preamble. No spin.

A sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“How long?”

“Three nights now. Maybe four. I tracked her as far as a roadside café outside of
Alexandria. She must’ve caught a ride.”

“With who?”

“No idea. But they’re heading west.”

Heston was quiet. Then: “She was supposed to be yours tomorrow.”

“I know.”

The silence grew heavy, brittle.

“She embarrassed us,” Heston hissed. “If this gets out, I lose my leverage. The Marshes walk. Your father walks. Everyone walks. Do you understand what that means for me?”
Gideon stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the windshield. “I’ll find her.”

“You’d better.”

Then the line went dead. Gideon sat in the stillness for a long beat, the smoke from the dying cigarette winding up into the overhead light like a question with no answer.

He didn’t like being the fool. He especially didn’t like being outmaneuvered by a woman who fit in his jacket pocket.

But if Darla thought she was free? She hadn’t seen just how far he was willing to go.

[Heny]

Firewall, a question. Is “Sweetgum & Ash” in the title a reference to these types of trees?

[DocRick]

Maybe I missed it, but what does PRD stand for?

[Elana]

The story claims it stands for "Proportional Reduction Disorder"

And i haven't even read the story

[Firewall]

Firewall, a question. Is “Sweetgum & Ash” in the title a reference to these types of trees?

Yes, "Sweetgum" is in reference to the trees that grow where Darla grew up. As for "Ash", it is the overarching goal of Kyle(and Darla's) trip that holds together the story.

Maybe I missed it, but what does PRD stand for?

The story claims it stands for "Proportional Reduction Disorder"

And i haven't even read the story

Yep. I try not to use the term PRD a ton but it's a consistent problem in their world that I plan to add more to in a future prequel.


Annnnd a shill moment....

If you're looking into more from this universe and don't mind it has material from the GTS side, here's the link:https://sizefiction.net/story/series/5?sort=like_count

[Heny]

Firewall, a question. Is “Sweetgum & Ash” in the title a reference to these types of trees?

Yes, "Sweetgum" is in reference to the trees that grow where Darla grew up. As for "Ash", it is the overarching goal of Kyle(and Darla's) trip that holds together the story.

Perfect! Don't let Gideon ever achieve his goal.