Too Little to Fight

Chapter 1
Full Story

Micah sat stubbornly on the edge of the sterile cot, legs dangling, scuffed sneakers thudding softly against the metal frame. The whole room felt like a hospital had been stripped down to its coldest, most impersonal bones — white walls, pale tile, a faint chemical sting in the air. He crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set defiantly, pretending not to feel the tremor in his fingers.

Across the room, Denise stood by a cart covered in neatly organized supplies. She was tall, severe-looking, her dark hair pulled back into a tight knot. Her lab coat was spotless. When she spoke, it was with the dry, clinical tone of someone reading results off a chart.

"This is for your own good, Micah," she said, without looking up. "You have demonstrated repeatedly that you are not prepared to manage your responsibilities. We are simply adjusting your developmental stage to one more appropriate."

Micah snorted. Loudly. "Yeah, good luck with that," he muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers against his jeans.

The bracelet on his wrist — a sleek silver band he had been too distracted to notice earlier — pulsed once, a subtle vibration against his skin. His heart skipped a beat.

"Wait—" he started, but the pulse became a steady hum, growing louder, drowning his words out.

The world tilted violently.

Colors blurred into a sickening swirl, and Micah gasped, clutching at the cot, but he was already slipping — mentally, physically, emotionally. His hands shrank visibly, his limbs pulling in toward his body. A thick, disorienting heaviness settled over him, like he was being pressed backward through himself by invisible hands.

He landed hard on his side, too small now to stay seated. His jeans hung awkwardly off his frame, pooled around his ankles. His oversized sweatshirt swallowed him up like a blanket.

Micah let out a high, unsteady whimper before he could stop himself.

Denise was at his side instantly, her movements smooth and practiced. She bent and scooped him up without hesitation, cradling his toddler-sized body against her chest. Her hands were firm but careful, repositioning him like a nurse adjusting a newborn.

"Shhh," she said softly, as if calming a patient after surgery. "It's all right, sweetheart. You are safe now."

Micah stiffened in her arms, trembling with outrage and fear. He twisted weakly, trying to push away from her — but his muscles, his coordination, his very instincts betrayed him. His body sought warmth, craved comfort, and despite everything, his tiny fists clutched blindly at the front of her lab coat.

"There we go," Denise murmured clinically, patting his back in slow, mechanical circles. "No more struggle. You will feel much better once you let go."

She moved them both into a wide, cushioned rocking chair tucked against one wall. The seat creaked under them, and Denise settled in without pause, one arm banded securely around Micah’s little waist. The slow, steady motion of the rocking chair filled the sterile room with a quiet rhythm.

Micah squeezed his eyes shut, biting back a sob. His pride screamed at him to fight, to resist — but the deep, primal part of him that still remembered being small ached for the comfort of steady arms and a firm, guiding voice.

He tucked his head against her shoulder with a shaky breath.

"There’s my good boy," Denise said, her voice dipping lower, almost affectionate. Her hand continued stroking down his spine, slow and methodical. "No need for all that anger anymore. We will take care of everything now."

From the nearby cart, she retrieved a prepared bottle, the liquid inside faintly steaming. Micah spotted it through half-lidded, glassy eyes, and fresh panic fluttered in his chest. He tried to squirm again, but Denise was ready — she shifted him easily in her lap, tipping the bottle toward his mouth with a smooth, professional motion.

"No thinking," she reminded him gently, almost absently, as if she were administering medication. "Just little sips, little breaths."

The rubber nipple brushed against his lips. Micah turned his face stubbornly away — once, twice — but Denise was patient, coaxing him back with steady hands. Finally, with a frustrated, broken whimper, he latched on and began to drink.

Warmth spilled into his mouth, rich and sweet, filling the hollow ache in his belly he had not realized was there. His small body relaxed against hers in tiny increments, tension bleeding away with each swallow.

"There we go," Denise whispered, her free hand cupping the back of his head. "Such a good boy when you remember how small you are."

Micah whimpered again, softer this time, barely a sound. His legs dangled limply over the side of her thigh, and his tiny fingers, still clenching the fabric of her coat, began to loosen. He was losing the ability to remember why he had been angry. Losing the ability to remember anything at all except the warm milk, the slow rocking, the low, steady voice anchoring him.

"You’re not going to grow up again, Micah," Denise said, her voice dropping to a hush, as if sharing a secret just between them. "You won’t get the chance to turn into that rude, stubborn teenager again. I promise."

The words, the certainty of them, slipped through the soft haze clouding his mind and rooted deep. He could not quite understand all of it, but he clung to the tone, the feeling of finality.

No more trying to be big.

No more pressure.

Just this.

Safe. Small. Wanted.

Micah’s eyelids fluttered, heavy and clumsy. The bottle slipped from his mouth with a wet pop, milk dribbling slightly down his chin. He blinked up at her, dazed, and gave a soft, unconscious sigh as he burrowed closer.

Denise caught the bottle before it fell and tucked it aside, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

"Good boy," she murmured one last time.

Micah clutched at her coat again with a tiny, exhausted hand and let the world fall away, the last scraps of teenage rebellion swallowed up by soft arms and a quiet promise that he would never have to be anything but little again.