Today’s a little busier at the bookstore than it was on Sunday. It isn’t hectic, but I’m swaying inside the birdcage quite a bit. I don’t mind it, but April’s sudden movements catch me off guard from time to time. I’m gripping the steel bars tightly, wincing every time a customer calls for her attention.

 I’m watching from the cage as April’s stocking books into shelves. I’m mesmerized; whether it’s out of awe or boredom, I can’t tell. April’s humming to herself, some mindless tune she’s making up as she goes along. She’s effortlessly moving stacks of books several times my size into the book case. She does it efficiently as well, like a well oiled machine working consistently.

A giant, stonehearted robot.

When she’s done, we’re sitting at the counter. Well, she is; I’m just stuck dangling on her chest. She’s eating her lunch. Thankfully there’s no pudding anywhere in sight, just a sloppily prepared sandwich that April’s struggling to keep together in her hands.

I’m dozing off as a woman bursts in. She looks like she’s in her mid thirties, and she carries herself like a mother.  She seems panicked, and she knows exactly what she’s looking for. I can’t help but notice how fidgety she is as if anything might tip her over the edge. She kept staring at the floor, keeping eye contact away from anyone of April’s coworkers. Her hair covers her face, and but I can tell from my low vantage point that they’re red, puffy.

The woman stops at a small section of the store. Not many people have been there, but everyone who did acted similarly. She grabs the first book on the shelf, hungrily scanning the covers., and she keeps the book close to her chest as she approaches April.

I’m holding on to a feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s instinctive, visceral, telling me that there’s something important about that book. The woman’s hands were shaking, covering the cover of the book as if embarrassed people would see her with it.

“Is this for you or a gift?” April asks, a trained line she’s told to say, something about telling how it’s sells in certain demographics.

“It’s for my son,” she says under a low breath. It’s strained, a little hoarse.

For the brief second she takes her hand off the book while she digs in her purse for her credit card. And I manage to capture a glimpse of the author’s name, Ansley Schrader.

Immediately, I recognize the name. She was the tiny on tv.

“Is he…already?”

“No,” the mother answers, “not yet.”

April’s expansive palm shrouds my vision as she clutches her chest.  Everything’s dark, warm, and I can hear April’s beating heart off in the distance. It’s comforting, kinda.

 By the time April’s done holding her chest, the woman’s shuffling away, quickly stuffing the book into her purse. I don’t know if I should ask April about the book, for all I know it could be nothing. I might as well try. My heart’s pounding, and my hands are sweating. I’m scared to ask her, but I don’t know why.

“April,” I call hoarsely, rattling against the steel bars. It takes her a second, but she finally acknowledges my existence.

“Yes, Juniper?”

“What was that book about? Sh—she seemed really protective of it.”

“Oh it’s nothing special,” she states with little enthusiasm, “it’s an autobiography about a woman who shrunk like you.”

“Like me?” We can both hear the tone in my voice flutter. As much as I tried to keep it contained, it's exposed, and April's eyes seem to gleam in response. “Do you—do you think you can read me some of it? When you’re not busy of course.”

April paused, and I could tell she wasn’t expecting my request. Hopefully she’s kind enough to say yes.

“I guess I could. Does it mean a lot to you?” April asks.

“Yes,” I mumble honestly.

Within seconds, April’s hands are dexterously handling the cage, unlocking the tiny door with her fingernails. I jump on her palm, and I’m planted on the counter, staring up at my massive sister’s smiling face as she’s leaning forward with her hand on her cheek. Her gaze is dopey, playful as her attention’s fixed on me.

“What do I get out of it?” April asks teasingly. Her tone’s light, but we both know she’s actually expecting something. I really don’t have much to offer other than a blank check of being April’s plaything. Even then, it can’t be that bad.

“I don’t know.” I say, and I immediately bite my lip, knowing I just said the worst possible thing.

“I’ll think of something,” she says, standing up from her seat behind the counter.

She walks off over to the same corner, picking the first book off the shelf and lazily shuffling back over. Flipping through the pages, April sighs, most likely out of inconvenience.

“It’s a pretty long book,” she moans. April wants more than just a favor. I can tell from just the look on her face; it's prying, and she's used to getting her way. There's no compromise, but she keeps up the thinly veiled front.

“Please, April.” I’m desperate at this point. Ansley’s book might be the only insight I get about being tiny, and we both know that. April’s just dangling it out of reach like it's tied on a stick.

“Oh, all right then, but you owe me,” she concedes, but I don’t feel like I’ve won. She has a wide smile as she rubs my head with her index finger, scratching a little too roughly. “You should really use those puppy-dog eyes more, June. You’re too adorable for it to not work every time.”

Yeah, sure.