You clamber up the curved, ivory arc of shattered porcelain, fingers slipping along the slick glaze, heart hammering like a jackrabbit in your chest. The shard rocks slightly under your weight, unstable, but it’s the only elevation you have—your only chance of being seen. You make it halfway up and start waving both arms, jumping, shouting silently.
From your perspective, Kristen’s face hovers godlike above, furrowed with a slight frown as she surveys the mess you left behind. Her lips part. She sighs.
“Dammit,” she mutters, crouching lower. Her scent drifts down with her: chili spice, laundry detergent, and a faint musk of dried sweat beneath the fleece.
Your arms ache from flailing, throat raw from screaming words no one can hear. You jump again, almost slipping—just as she reaches into the cupboard above and pulls out a broom.
“No more ceramic tonight, please,” she says to no one in particular, sliding the bristles from the hook by the pantry. The handle creaks as she twists it down.
You freeze.
Then: shhhhhhckk.
The bristles drag against the tile, pushing the outer edges of the debris inward. You scream—this time not for attention but for help—as the shard beneath your feet wobbles violently. The motion topples you, flinging your body off balance. You slide along the ceramic slope, skidding down—
And land hard, back-first, in a cluster of coffee grounds and dust bunnies. The bristles rush in again, dense and black as a forest floor, dragging everything inward with a swift, mechanical sweep.
She’s sweeping you into the pile.
From your vantage, Kristen’s face is lost beyond the lip of the counter, her voice just a murmur overhead. The broom’s rhythm is ruthless. The air is choked with stale lint and old crumbs. You roll out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed flat by a clump of hair.
Another pass. The bristles rake directly over you—your body bends, skin scratched raw across your chest and arms. You’re flung backward, dazed, rolled like garbage against the baseboard.
A moment later, the dustpan slams into the tile. Kristen’s hand pins it in place.
You try again. You stumble forward, raising your arm—but the broom’s final pass is swift and decisive. The gritty, foul-tasting blend of filth and floor grime buries you, and you tumble into the concave mouth of the dustpan like refuse.
Above you, a shadow looms. Kristen lifts the pan casually, humming. Her voice is distant, bright. “Trash, trash, trash…”
Then you’re moving—tilting—air rushing past.
You fall. Land with a dull thud atop a pile of plastic wrappers, banana peels, and something cold and slimy. The plastic bag’s mouth rustles open above—and slaps shut with a crinkling whisper as the lid of the shelter’s kitchen garbage bin closes over you.
It’s warm in here. Damp. Reeking.
The banana peel you landed on slides under your back as the trash bag shifts with your weight. Somewhere above, the world continues without you.
You breathe shallowly. The smell’s unbearable: old meat, detergent, mold. But you’re alive.
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