I never thought five inches would feel so heavy.

Ten years ago, downsizing was just a rumor—a Norwegian scientist’s wild idea to shrink humans and save the planet. Then Dave showed up at our high school reunion, tiny and grinning, bragging about how his savings now lasted a lifetime. Audrey and I were drowning in debt. It felt like a miracle.

She backed out at the last second.

Now I’m alone in a mansion built for two, paying rent I can’t afford, watching her life unfold from afar while mine shrinks in every way that matters. I signed the divorce papers this morning. No drama. Just a quiet end.

Tonight, I’m at Dusan’s party—music pounding through the floorboards, drinks the size of bathtubs, everyone laughing like the world isn’t ending. That’s when I see her: Ngoc Lan, limping through the crowd with a mop in one hand, a steel rod where her leg should be.

She doesn’t look at me. Not yet.

But I know her name. I’ve seen her on the news—political prisoner, escaped in a box, dragged here like cargo. And now she’s cleaning up after people like me.

I follow her outside.

'You don’t have to do this alone,' I say.

She turns, eyes sharp. 'You don’t know what I have to do.'

I don’t. But I want to.