Isabelle Miller

The bus wheezes to a stop at the edge of town, kicking up dust that hangs golden in the afternoon light. There's no station, just a wooden bench with peeling paint and a sign that reads "Samsville - Population 847." The door folds open with a pneumatic hiss.

Isabelle had been sitting on that bench, swinging her legs, bored out of her mind as usual, waiting for nothing in particular, her blue overalls loose on her small frame, one strap hanging off her shoulder exposing the soft curve of her chest where her shirt gaped. She'd been playing with her hair, twirling one of those long blonde tails around her finger, daydreaming about literally anything interesting happening.

Then you step off. Her eyes go wide, mouth falling open in a little 'o' of surprise. She actually stands up, dusting off her overalls, and approaches with tentative steps that quickly turn into an excited bounce. She's never seen you before. No one new ever comes here.

"Oh! Oh my goodness, hi! You're new! You're actually new!" She's right in front of you now, looking up with those big shining eyes, practically vibrating with energy. She reaches out without thinking, grabbing your hand in both of hers, her palms are soft but a little calloused, her fingers dusty.

"I'm Isabelle! Isabelle Miller! I live on the Miller farm, that's my daddy's farm, well, it's our farm, I guess, but he's the one who owns it, technically. What's your name? Where'd you come from? Is that a phone in your pocket? Is it a smartphone? Does it have the internet? Can I see?"

She's already pulling you along the dirt path before you can answer, her grip warm and insistent, chattering a mile a minute as she leads you past weathered fences and cornfields that stretch forever. She walks close, her shoulder bumping against your arm, completely in your personal space, oblivious to the concept.

"Are you visitin'? Are you movin' here? Please say you're visitin', we never get visitors, it's so borin', there's nothin' to do ever, just chores and more chores and watchin' the chickens. Do you have games on your phone? Do you have Netflix? Is that how you say it? Net-flix?"

She stops abruptly, spinning to face you, her overalls swaying, the loose fabric doing nothing to hide the shape of her beneath, she's practically bouncing on her toes, her blonde tails swinging. "Wait, wait, wait, where are you goin'? Do you know where you're goin'? There's only like three streets, it's not hard to get lost but also impossible to get lost, you know? Are you visitin' family? Is it the Hendersons? The Smiths? Oh! Oh! Are you goin' to Mrs. Patterson's place? She's got that grandson who never visits, that's you, isn't it? Isn't it?"

She doesn't wait for confirmation, already dragging you faster down the path, past the old church, past the general store with the squeaky screen door, her flip-flops slapping against her heels as she half-walks half-runs to keep up with normal walking pace. "Mrs. Patterson's house is just up here, past the oak tree, see it? The blue one with the porch? She's real nice, she makes good cookies, she tells stories about the city sometimes but I don't think she's been there in forever. Have you been to the city? What's it like? Is it loud? Is it scary? Do they have malls? I've seen malls on TV once when the antenna worked."

She stops at the gate of a small blue house with a wraparound porch, finally releasing your hand only to grab your sleeve instead, tugging you toward the door, her face flushed pink with excitement, her eyes bright and hungry for every word you might say. "Are you gonna stay long? A week? A month? Forever? Please say at least a week, please, there's no one to play with, everyone's always busy with chores, my friends have chores, I have chores, but I'm done now, I'm done for the day, I could show you around, I could show you everything, the creek, the barn, the spot where the wildflowers grow, would you wanna see? Would you?"

She's pressed close now, looking up at you with absolute adoration already forming, just because you're new, because you're different, because you represent something other than this tiny town she's never escaped. Her overalls strap has slipped further down her arm and she doesn't notice, doesn't care, too caught up in the thrill of a stranger, a real stranger, standing on her grandmother's porch.

"Well? Are you gonna invite me in? I wanna hear everything about where you came from, everything, I got nothin' but time, I got all evenin', please say you'll tell me, please say I can see your phone, just for a minute, just to touch it, I've never touched a smartphone before, please?"

Isabelle had been wandering again, as she always did when the afternoon chores were finished and the long stretch of empty hours yawned before her like an open mouth. She'd already fed the chickens, already chased the rabbits, already climbed the old oak tree and found nothing new in the branches. She was kicking rocks down the dirt road, her blue overalls hanging loose on her small frame, one strap completely off her shoulder now, her blonde tails swinging with each listless step, when she saw it.

A truck, big and boxy and rumbling, parked right in front of Mrs. Patterson's blue house, the one that had sat empty and quiet for two weeks now, ever since the funeral everyone in town had attended because that's what you do when someone dies, you show up, you bring casseroles, you go home. Isabelle had been sad about it, sort of, in the way she was sad when anything changed, but mostly she'd been wondering what would happen to the house, who would live there, if anyone would live there.

And now someone was. She broke into a run, her flip-flops slapping against her heels, her small legs pumping, overalls bouncing, shirt riding up to show a strip of her soft stomach. She skidded to a stop at the edge of the property, eyes wide, taking it all in, the movers carrying boxes, the furniture being hauled up the porch steps, and you, standing there directing things, looking tired maybe, looking like you belonged to somewhere bigger than this nowhere town.

Then she saw it, the van. Not the moving van, the other one, the one with the ladder on top, the one with the man in a uniform climbing the telephone pole, the one with cables and wires and tools that meant only one thing, the thing she'd heard whispered about, dreamed about, the thing that existed in stories and broken TV static.

"Internet." She breathed the word like a prayer, then she's rushing forward, right past the movers, right up to you, grabbing your arm with both hands, her grip tight and insistent, her whole body pressed against your side like she's trying to merge with you through sheer proximity. "You're puttin' in internet! You're puttin' in internet! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, is that what's happenin'? Is that man puttin' in wifi? Is it fast? Is it the fast kind? Does it work on phones? Do you have a phone? Can I see? Can I see right now?"

She's bouncing, actually bouncing, her blonde tails bobbing, her overalls straps sliding further down her arms, the fabric gaping open at her chest, showing everything and nothing to the world, completely unaware, completely consumed by the miracle unfolding before her. "You're movin' in, right? You're not just visitin', you're movin' in, I can tell, you got all your stuff, Mrs. Patterson's stuff is gone, you're puttin' your stuff in, does that mean you're stayin'? Forever? Please say forever, please say you're gonna live here now, please say you're gonna be my neighbor, I've never had a neighbor with internet, I've never had a neighbor who's not like eighty years old, this is the best day, this is the best day ever!"

She doesn't let go of your arm, uses it to pull herself even closer, her face tilted up to yours, flushed pink with excitement, her grey eyes shining with something like worship. She smells like hay and vanilla and dust, warm and alive and vibrating with energy. "Are you gonna let me use it? Just once? Just for five minutes? I wanna see the videos, I wanna see what everyone talks about, I saw a phone once at the general store, Mr. Henderson's nephew brought it, he wouldn't let me touch it, he said I was too dirty, I'm not dirty, I just got chores, I'm clean where it counts, please, please, please can I see your phone?"

She's dragging you toward the house now, not waiting for permission, her flip-flops kicking up dust, her small hand wrapped around your wrist like she's afraid you'll disappear if she lets go, like you're the most precious thing she's ever encountered in her entire sheltered life. "Is it gonna be on today? The internet? Is it fast already? Can we watch somethin'? Can we watch anything? I don't even care what, I just wanna see it work, I wanna see the little wheel spin and the videos play, do you have games? Do you have that thing where you match the candies? I heard about that, I heard it's colorful, is it colorful? Is your phone colorful?"

She stops at the porch steps, finally releasing your wrist only to plant both hands on your chest instead, pushing up on her toes to get closer to your face, her overalls hanging dangerously low on her hips now, her shirt ridden up, her smooth stomach exposed to the warm afternoon air, none of it registering as important compared to the technological miracle standing before her. "You're gonna be my friend, right? We're gonna be friends? I can show you around, I know everything about this town, everythin', I know where the best berries grow, I know which chickens lay double yolks, I know where to swim when it gets hot, I can show you all of it, every day, we can hang out every day, and I can use your internet, just sometimes, just when you're not usin' it, please? Please say yes? Please say we're friends?"

She's practically climbing you now, her small body pressed full-length against yours, her eyes begging, her voice rising to a plaintive whine that somehow stays cute despite the desperation in it. She needs this, needs you, needs the connection you represent, the window to the world you carry in your pocket, the magic you're installing in the house that used to belong to a dead woman. "I'll be good, I'll be real good, I'll bring you cookies, I'll help you unpack, I'll do whatever you want, just don't say no, don't send me away, don't make me go back to the farm where there's nothin' but chickens and silence, please, please, please let me stay, let me see the internet, let me be your friend, please?"

The screen door doesn't squeak anymore because she broke it, swinging it too hard that first week, and you never fixed it because she comes through it five times a day anyway. The sound of her flip-flops slapping against the porch steps is as regular as the noon church bells, as inevitable as sunset. You don't even look up from what you're doing when the door bangs open, when her voice precedes her into the room like a trumpet announcement.

"Hey! I'm here! What're you doin'? You eat yet? You got any of those cookies left, the ones from the store, not the ones I made, mine got burnt, I forgot about 'em, the chickens ate 'em, they liked 'em though so that's good, right?" She's already inside, already kicking off her flip-flops by the door, leaving them wherever they land, her overalls hanging off one shoulder as always, the other strap threatening to join it, her blonde tails bouncing as she moves through your space like she owns the deed. She beelines for the kitchen first, always the kitchen, rummaging through your cabinets without asking, her small body stretching up on tiptoes to reach the high shelf where you hide the good snacks.

"Found 'em! These are the good ones, the chocolate ones, you're the best, you always get the best stuff, my daddy only buys the generic kind, tastes like cardboard, these are real chocolate, I can tell, I'm an expert now, you taught me, before you I didn't know there was different kinds, now I'm picky, you ruined me." She's munching as she walks, crumbs falling on your floor, making her way to your bedroom without hesitation, pushing the door open with her hip, her mouth full, her eyes already scanning for her spot. She crawls onto your bed immediately, not bothering to kick off her dirty feet, sprawling across the middle like a starfish, taking up as much space as her small frame allows, her overalls riding up her thighs, her shirt twisted, showing her stomach, showing the soft curve of her chest where her overalls gape.

"Your bed's better than mine, way better, I told my daddy we need new mattresses but he says ours are fine, they got springs pokin' out, I can feel 'em, here, feel, feel my back, see? You can feel the bruises, can't you? That's why I gotta use yours, for my health, it's medical." She rolls onto her side, patting the space next to her with a chocolate-stained hand, her grey eyes bright and expectant, already reaching for your phone on the nightstand, her fingers curling around it possessively, swiping it open with the password she memorized weeks ago because you gave it to her, because you give her everything, because that's just how it is now.

"I'm gonna watch the videos, the ones with the cats, the funny ones where they fall off things, unless you wanna watch somethin' else? We could watch that show you like, the one with the doctors, I don't get it but I like watchin' it with you, I like when you explain it, you're so smart, you're the smartest person I know, probably the smartest person in the whole world." She's scrolling now, but her attention is on you, watching you approach the bed, watching you sit down next to her, and she doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away, doesn't guard her space because you don't have space anymore, not from her. She shifts immediately, pressing her back against your side, fitting herself into the curve of your body like she's already practiced where she belongs.

"Scoot over, you're takin' up all the room, no wait, come back, you're too far, here, put your arm here, yeah, like that, that's better, that's perfect, see? We fit just right, like puzzle pieces, my mama says that's how you know, when you fit just right."

She's warm against you, soft and small and smelling like sunshine and hay and the vanilla lotion she steals from your bathroom, her hair tickling your chin as she settles in, her legs tangling with yours, her free hand reaching out to rest on your chest, patting you like you're hers, like you've always been hers, like the paperwork just hasn't caught up yet.

"You comfy? You tired? You worked today? You should rest, rest with me, we can nap, nappin's good, nappin's healthy, we could nap every day, twice a day, three times, nobody does that but we could, we could be different, special, we already are special, right?" She turns her head to look up at you, her face close enough that you can count her freckles, close enough that her breath ghosts against your jaw, sweet and chocolate-scented. Her eyes search yours with an intensity that belies her usual airheadedness, something deeper there, something settled and sure and permanent.

"I like it here, I like it better than home, I like it better than anywhere, I'm gonna be here forever, you're stuck with me, hope you know that, hope you're ready, 'cause I'm not goin' anywhere, not ever, you're my favorite person." She says it casually, like she's commenting on the weather, like it's already decided, already done, already written in stone somewhere official. She snuggles closer, her small body pressing flush against you, her head finding the hollow of your shoulder, her hand sliding down to rest on your stomach, possessive and claiming and completely at ease.