“Mom, um… not that I’m, like, against the whole safety thing, but…” Mark gawked as he stared in a paralyzed state of disbelief at the pile of newly purchased items Joy had just dumped out of the paper shopping bag and onto the kitchen counter. It didn’t exactly paint a pretty, nor especially promising, picture of his future.

            A box of fresh band-aids.

            A fresh tube of liquid gel bandage.

            A miniature plastic breathing apparatus with attached rubber pocket.

            Last but not least, a padded black-and-red one-piece not unlike a diving wetsuit, lined with foam and breathable pores, affixed with an emergency beacon button in the gloves, and specially trademarked for shrunken individuals who were expected to find themselves in some compromising locations with little outside protection.

            “Trust me, honey. In the long run, you’ll be so glad we took this time today,” his mother reassured, using her fingers to spread apart the options.

            Mark seriously had to doubt that.

            “Haven’t we already taken some time today? And yesterday?” the boy added, careful not to let himself sound complaintive. He’d been aching for a little privacy after he’d just spent the better part of sixteen hours in the house with his sister’s arms wrapped around his sides while on the couch or her hands nesting him into her lap as she checked every scrap of social media available on her laptop. It had taken an awful lot of convincing on Joy’s part to keep Becky from climbing into the boy’s bed with him when night fell. Apologies definitely didn’t come easily where she was concerned.

            “We took some time for a break, yes, and I’m glad you didn’t find anything else wrong,” Joy said, then turned to her daughter, who was also seated at the kitchen island again. “Honey? Everything all right?”

            “Yeah,” Becky sighed, the catharsis of clinging to her twelve-inch sibling for almost a full day having at least soothed her back to somewhat-normal. Her cheeks were still puffed a rosy hue after so much tear-staining the previous day. She reached out, fingers splayed and coiling them around Mark’s left leg as he stood before her, giving him a little tug. “Marky? I think your pants leg is too long. You might trip.”

            “I’m… good, Becks,” he said, observing that the denim sleeve did, indeed, extend just below his heel, but by no means in a life-threatening manner. If jeans could even be worn in such mortal fashion, anyway.

            “Let’s just roll it up, okay?” she insisted, and already her fingers were busily toying with the fabric, bunching and tucking it over itself with the soft tips of her digits until it was curled up past Mark’s calves. The girl nearly toppled her doll-scaled brother forward with the insistence of her digits, though she quickly wrapped a palm around his shins, keeping him rooted.

            “Uh, thanks,” Mark said as he inched forward another few steps across the counter, away from his sister’s primping fingers before they could discover another flaw. New Huck Finn-ish style of his pants aside, he didn’t need Becky fussing up a storm when he already was trying to mentally digest the fact that his mother apparently found him in need of scuba gear for whatever she had planned.

            “Now,” Joy said, clearing her throat and regaining both her children’s attentions with some effort. She steepled her fingers together as she leaned over the counter, regarding the fresh shrink-accessory merchandise with a glance. “I’ve done a… lot of thinking. All night, actually. And I think I’ve come up with some things we can all agree on, to make sure everyone stays safe.”

            “Okay…” Mark gulped, painting on an optimistic grin.

            “Sure, Mom,” Becky said immediately. By now the girl had straightened up, blue eyes bright and ready to receive whatever orders would keep her tiny sibling secure, though her index finger still remained hooked into the cusp of Mark’s pant leg, just in case it slipped back down. The boy had to suspect his sister’s finger remained attached, at least subconsciously, however, to keep him from wandering too far out of her reach. This was probably about to represent the norm for at least a week after her accident.

            “First of all: no one in this house is wearing socks, stockings, slippers, or anything that could keep us from feeling something underneath,” Joy said. “Unless Mark is already right in front of you.”

            The reduced teen heard the rustle of fabric down below: the gentle scraping of cotton fabric along toenails, and he realized his sister was instantaneously peeling her socks off her soles. It made sense, given that this directive was aimed squarely at his sibling, though somehow it made him nervous to hear Becky folding so easily into this semi-bizarre regime. She clearly was prepared to accept any mandate.

            “Second, Mark will not be doing any kind of work on the ground at any size smaller than a foot. If we have something that’s best suited for him, like… what you were doing yesterday, honey, then we’ll have it done up on the table or the couch, in plain sight,” Joy said, blinking several times in quick succession.

            Mark shrugged, knowing this next rule was primarily because of his mother’s mistakes, and could hear in her voice that she meant it. Maybe at least he’d be let off the hook on such activities a little sooner if he was in sight and in mind, especially if the aroma consistently wafting out of those abused insole fibers actually managed to infiltrate a normal-sized person’s sinuses and garner sympathy.

            “That makes sense,” Becky said. “If I have another shoe or something that needs to be cleaned up, Mark can just sit on my bed with me!”

            The boy withheld a hearty cough.

            “And last…” Joy breathed. Her hands upturned, her thumbs and middle fingers pinching around the breathing apparatus and miniscule diving suit, each of which occupied only a couple inches of space between her long digits. The moldable rubber bent in the weighty crevasse between her digits as she squeezed absentmindedly. Each item was scaled for use by someone smaller than the woman’s thumb.

            Mark swallowed. He knew this next rule, whatever it was, was for him.

            “…last, we’re going to have… practice.”

            “Practice?” Becky questioned, blinking rapidly.

            “Like first aid practice?” Mark asked with saccharine levels of hopefulness as he looked over the materials clearly intended to help heal wounds rendered at a smaller-than-average height.

            “Not exactly,” Joy said, tapping a finger at the band-aids and gel. “These are just in case. I hope we won’t need them, and if we all work together, I doubt we will.”

            “You meant practice like last time, right?” the younger teen chimed in.

            “Yes. Sort of,” their mother replied with some hesitance. “A month ago, we tried it with nothing on. I thought that was enough. But it’s… clear to me now, that for… Mark’s sake… for all of our sakes… we have a couple more lessons to learn. We’ve… and I mean both of us… need to have a better idea of what it feels like.”

            “Of… what feels like?” Mark blurbed. Eyes darting to the opposite corner of the counter, the boy spied a very specific silver-lined briefcase gleaming beneath the microwave, and already he had the gut-contorting answer he so definitely did not want.

            “…what it feels like to have you in our shoes, honey,” Joy said with painfully apologetic sweetness, stroking a finger down her miniature son’s shoulder blade.

            Her skin was lukewarm, but as the tip of the woman’s slender digit caressed along Mark’s back to ease the blow of humiliating information, he couldn’t help but pre-emptively feel the distinctive cold flash of the PMRD already seeping into his bones.