Chapter 3
Eddie
“Ahhh, this is the place to be,” I say, happy and content. “Good call, Robbie. Good call.”
“Hey, you know me,” Robbie giggles. “I’m never wrong. LOL. Well, maybe not never…”
The Happy Giraffe smells like vanilla cookies and fresh crayons, and the second Robbie and I stepped through the door, the knot in my tummy loosened just a little. And now we’ve settled down into ourselves, I’m sensing that Little Space isn’t too far away either.
We’re both in matching pastel rompers—Robbie’s lavender with tiny white stars, mine mint-green with little yellow ducks—because tonight is about being small and silly and safe.
My sippy cup is already filled with strawberry milk, the lid snapped on tight so I don’t spill when I get too excited.
Robbie has apple juice, because he says it makes him feel like he’s drinking sunshine.
Robbie might be full of sass and spark in day to day life, but when it comes to Little time, he’s as Little as anyone I’ve ever met. And I’m all there for it.
We drop our backpacks by the cubby wall, Goldie’s golden mane poking out the top of mine like he’s making sure I don’t forget him for even a second.
And after grabbing our stuffies we pad straight to the big soft carpet in the corner where the low table is already covered in coloring books and every pencil color you could dream of.
I flop onto my tummy first, stretching out like a starfish. Robbie mirrors me, our legs kicking gently behind us. Our stuffies are with us too and it all feels so right.
“Which picture are you doing?” Robbie asks, already reaching for the pack of metallic pencils.
“The unicorn castle,” I mumble around the spout of my sippy. “The one with the rainbow moat.”
He giggles. “Classic Eddie. Always going for the sparkliest. Yay sparkles!”
I take a long sip, letting the cold sweetness settle my nerves, then pick up a silver pencil and start shading the unicorn’s horn.
For a few minutes it’s just the scratch-scratch of color on paper, the soft music playing overhead, and the occasional squeal from the Littles zooming around the racetrack on the other side of the room.
But my brain won’t stay quiet.
I set the pencil down and roll onto my side so I can look at Robbie properly.
“I’m really nervous about the show,” I confess, voice small and my heartbeat going up a notch. “Like… really nervous. Milo was being super weird today after that man left too which just made the whole thing ten times worse.”
Robbie pauses mid-stroke on his dragon’s wing. “Weird how?”
“Like… twitchy. Sweaty. He kept looking at the door like he expected someone to come back and yell at him. And that guy—” I shiver just remembering the dark suit, the cold confidence rolling off him in waves.
“He looked like he eats people for breakfast, Robbie. And Milo was practically shaking. And that’s not the Milo I’m used to, you know? ”
Robbie tilts his head, considering. “Maybe the guy’s just some rich collector who wants to buy the whole gallery or something. It could be good news for you! Milo’s always bragging about how much money he has, right? Maybe he feels intimidated by someone with more than him.”
“But he looked scary,” I whisper. “Like… dangerous scary. Not finance-bro scary.”
Robbie reaches over and squeezes my hand. His fingers are warm and a little sticky from the juice he spilled earlier.
“Listen, baby boy,” Robbie says softly, using that gentle voice he saves for when I’m spiraling.
“Your show is going to be amazing. Your sculptures are incredible. People are going to walk in there and lose their minds. And Milo? He might be a show-off, but he knows how to sell art. Whatever weird vibe you picked up, it’s probably just gallery politics. Nothing to do with you.”
I chew my bottom lip. “You think?”
“I know.” He boops my nose with the end of his pencil. “You’ve worked so hard. You deserve to shine. And if anyone tries to mess with your night, they’ll have to get through me first. And I bite.”
Damn, Robbie is good.
I snort-laugh, the tension in my chest unwinding a fraction. “You bite like a angry kitten.”
“An angry kitten with very sharp baby teeth,” Robbie corrects, flashing them at me.
I smile—actually smile—and pick my pencil back up. “Okay. I’m gonna finish this unicorn, then we race. Loser has to do the winner’s dishes for a week.”
“Deal,” Robbie says immediately. “But you’re washing my sippy cups too. They’re always sticky.”
We finish our pictures in record time, mine sparkly and dreamy, his fierce and full of fire. Then we grab Goldie and Robbie’s stuffy, a fluffy purple capybara named Squish, and head to the race track.
The playroom has been transformed tonight: bright tape marks out lanes on the padded floor, little traffic cones, even a checkered finish line made of soft felt.
A bunch of other Littles are already zooming around in socks, some crawling, some scooting on their bottoms, a few brave ones attempting to run without tripping over their own rompers.
Robbie and I line up at the start, stuffies tucked under our arms like batons.
“Ready… set…” one of the caregivers calls, a big smile on his face.
We both crouch like sprinters.
“GO!”
I take off like a rocket, giggling so hard my vision blurs. Robbie is right beside me, arms pumping, Squish flapping wildly. We weave around the cones, dodge a Little in a dinosaur onesie who’s decided to roll instead of run, and I can feel the carpet burning my knees through my romper.
Halfway around the second lap, someone bumps me—not so gently—and I stumble, laughing, right into Robbie. We go down in a tangle of limbs and rompers and stuffies, rolling into three other Littles who were already in a pile.
It turns into a full-on cuddle-pile-up, everyone shrieking and squealing and hugging. I end up on my back with Goldie squished against my chest, Robbie’s head on my tummy, and some random Little’s foot in my hair.
It’s chaotic and perfect.
For a little while, I forget about galleries and scary men and deadlines.
But eventually the caregivers start herding everyone toward wind-down snacks and story time. Robbie and I collect our things, still breathless and flushed.
“So much!” Robbie squeals with delight. “I’m in the mood to party. Hit a bar. I know you said you wouldn’t come out after, but…”
“I’m gonna head to the gallery,” I tell him as we change back into street clothes in the cubby area. “I need to move a couple things around. Milo did okay, but… it’s not quite right yet.”
He raises an eyebrow. “At this hour? Alone?”
“I’ve got the key code,” I say. “And I won’t stay long. Promise. I just need it to feel perfect before the opening.”
Robbie studies me for a second, then nods. “Text me when you’re home safe, okay? And if anything feels off, you call me. Or the police. Or both.”
“Promise.”
“Or even better, come and join me on my quest to find a perfect Daddy!” Robbie giggles. “Well, a perfect Daddy for tonight anyhow…”
“Hmmmm,” I say, arching my eyebrow. “Behave yourself or you might end up getting spanked by two Daddies like last time.”
“Maybe that’s the plan,” Robbie says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
We hug tight—squishy, warm, Little hugs—then I head out into the chilly night air, Goldie safely zipped in my backpack again.
The walk to the gallery is quick.
The streets are quiet, just the occasional car whooshing past and the hum of the city that never really sleeps. I punch in the code at the back door, slip inside, and lock it behind me.
“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” I say, taking a deep breath.
The space looks different under the low emergency lights: shadows stretch long across the concrete, my sculptures looming like silent guardians. Milo’s arrangement isn’t terrible—he grouped the smaller pieces together nicely—but the big ones need better breathing room.
Especially the pair of boxing hares.
They’re my favorites: two massive, muscular hares reared up on hind legs, paws locked in combat, every line of tension and fury captured in clay.
It’s kind of like two Daddy hares sparring over who gets to claim the Little.
Well, that’s my interpretation anyway. And as I’m the artist, what I say is the most important!
Anyway…
I set my backpack down and get to work.
I drag one pedestal a few feet left, step back, tilt my head. Better.
Another few inches. Perfect.
I move to the hares next, circling them slowly, imagining how the light will hit during the opening. Maybe if I angle them just so—
A metallic click.
The back door.
My heart slams into my ribs.
“Milo?” I whisper.
But Milo left hours ago. And he never uses the back door at night.
I freeze, listening.
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate. Two sets.
Male voices, low and calm.
I don’t think. I just move.
I duck behind the largest sculpture—the boxing hares—and crouch low, pressing myself against the cool clay base. My breath is loud in my ears. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“…paperwork should be through by morning,” one voice says. Deep. Controlled. Familiar.
The scary man.
My stomach drops.
“Once it’s official, we can start the reno next week,” the second man replies. “Apartments upstairs, retail on the ground floor. Good money in it.”
“Yup,” the other man replies. “I told Milo he could keep the gallery. But plans change.”
They’re walking closer. I can see their legs now—dark trousers, polished shoes.
“Milo folded faster than I expected,” the first man continues, that same icy confidence from earlier. “Thought he’d put up more of a fight.”
A low chuckle. “You can be persuasive.”
They stop maybe ten feet away. I hold my breath so hard my chest aches.
Then—
Pop. Pop.
Two quick, muffled shots.
The second man drops like a stone, crumpling right in front of me. Blood spreads dark across the concrete.
I scream—small, choked, involuntary. My heart thumps inside my chest and I feel adrenalin surge over my body, my mind at the same moment totally blank.
The scary man moves faster than should be possible. He spins, gun already up, and fires once more. Clean. Precise. The attacker—whoever came through the door behind them—slumps against the wall and doesn’t move again.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
More footsteps—heavy boots now—crashing through the front entrance.
Shouts.
Gunfire. This time louder and longer.
Bullets ping off metal beams, shatter glass somewhere behind me.
I’m going to die here.
Right here, behind my own sculpture, in the middle of the night, before anyone even sees my show.
Then—strong hands grab my upper arms.
I yelp, thrashing.
“Quiet,” a voice growls in my ear—urgent, commanding. “I’ve got you.”
It’s him.
The scary man.
He hauls me up like I weigh nothing, tucks me against his side, and starts moving—and fast. His arm is iron around my waist, shielding me as more shots crack through the air.
We burst through the side exit into the alley. Cold air hits my face like a slap.
There’s a black SUV waiting, engine running.
He practically throws me into the back seat, dives in after me, and slams the door.
The driver floors it before I even get my seatbelt on.
I’m crying now—big, hiccupping sobs. My whole body shakes. This can’t be happening. It can’t be real. And yet, I know that this isn’t a nightmare. I know that this actually is happening.
He turns to me, face hard but eyes… softer than I expected.
“You’re safe,” he says. Firm. Like it’s a fact. “But you need to trust me. Just for now. Can you do that?”
I stare at him—dark eyes, sharp jaw, blood on the cuff of his shirt that isn’t his.
More gunfire echoes behind us, fainter now.
The car swerves around a corner.
I swallow hard.
“I—I don’t even know your name,” I whisper.
“Viktor,” he says.
Another tear slides down my cheek. I know I need to hold things together. I know that despite Viktor—if that’s actually his name—saving me, the trouble might only just be beginning.
But the car is speeding away from the gallery, away from the bodies, away from the chaos.
And right now, with bullets still ringing in my ears and my sculptures left behind in a war zone, trusting him feels like the only option I have left.
I nod once. Small. Trembling.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
Viktor reaches over, buckles my seatbelt for me with careful hands, then pulls me against his side.
“Hold on, little one,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And for reasons I can’t explain, I believe him.
The only question now is what’s next? And where the hell are we going?