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estebanbicon · 2 months ago

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The F1 driver who takes every opening he sees

A mechanic’s son, Esteban Ocon took an unlikely path to an F1 driver’s seat. Now he’s fighting to keep it.

MONTE CARLO, Monaco — The mechanic’s son walks past women in bright dresses and men in fine suits, many of them sipping champagne. He breathes in the salty air of the Mediterranean, its shoreline neither rocks nor sand but dozens of mega-yachts.

The Monaco Grand Prix, held each May, is the global peak of sports opulence, less street race than picture postcard from high society: A-listers and royals toasting the good life in the richest place on Earth. Several Formula One drivers live here, their plain-sight hideaway amid a Netflix-fueled fascination with their sport. Among them are Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton — champions, multimillionaires and household names in a sport Hamilton has called a “billionaire boys club.”

Esteban Ocon, though, is not of this world. When Ocon was a karting wunderkind, other drivers would sneer at him and scoff, whispering that the only child of a dumpster-diving mechanic doesn’t belong. That the Frenchman, now 28, will forever be a [wanderer] playing dress-up in a place such as Monaco. Even after eight years on the grid, he remains an outsider.

Then again, an impressive finish here would change minds. It might even change Ocon’s, convincing him it’s possible to be born into one end of the economic spectrum and, with enough talent and moxie, reach the other.

He changes out of his jeans and into an Alpine race suit. He stretches the muscles on his thin frame and climbs into a $15 million super machine. The green flag drops. Ocon accelerates, 0 to 100 mph in 2½ seconds, trying to position himself and his team for an early chance at points. Over the years, he has proved himself as a skilled and fearless driver, aggressive sometimes to the point of recklessness.

With Monaco’s narrow streets and hairpin turns, passing is dangerous. Three-time world champion Nelson Piquet once compared it to riding a bicycle in your living room. And trying to pass a teammate? It simply isn’t done.

Before the race, in fact, Alpine instructed its drivers to avoid each other. Whoever is ahead after the first lap should stay there; the driver behind him is to protect his blind side.

Midway through the first lap, the cars are clustered. Pierre Gasly, Alpine’s other driver, is immediately in front of Ocon. On the eighth turn, just before the circuit’s famed tunnel, Gasly eases off the accelerator. Ocon sees his teammate drift left, allowing space between Gasly and the wall, creating an opening.

FIVE HUNDRED MILES NORTH, there’s a small French village built into the lush countryside. People in Évreux raise chickens, recycle batteries, mow their own grass. And the locals tell of a man north of town who could bring back the dead, so long as the corpse had four wheels.

One of those locals, Marc Guillouet, still remembers the sound of Laurent Ocon’s air compressor bellowing at all hours as Ocon performed reconstructive surgery on another broken-down used car that had been towed through his gate. Then, hours later, another sound: the engine humming back to life.

“The way he refurbished it,” Guillouet says, “it was like new.”

Laurent was a self-taught mechanic who built his shop onto the back of the Ocons’ home, a single-car garage jutting out in yellow stucco. It was in the house’s rear, but it acted as the family’s entrance. Before school some mornings, young Esteban would see his father, grease up to his elbows, still trying to solve the previous night’s puzzle. When Esteban returned in the afternoon, he would watch Dad beamas he turned the key, listened and … there it was, that beautiful music.

“We live for that,” Esteban says now. “He wants to win, like me.”

Laurent’s passion was reviving machines. His son’s was maneuvering them. Esteban says he was 4 the first time he got behind the wheel of a go-kart, gliding around the track at an amusement park, through cones and around other karts as if it were second nature. His friend who came along drove straight into the wall.

Esteban kept driving, testing himself in bigger, faster, more complex machines. The families of some other 8-year-olds hired engineers, barked into radios and traveled with professional mechanics. But Laurent and wife Sabrina had no money for that. If Esteban’s carburetor failed or his torsion bar broke, it was Laurent who mounted a new one. Then they would return to Évreux from Ambourville or Rouen, often with Esteban cradling another trophy.

“We tried to protect Esteban from pressure as much as possible,” Laurent says, answering questions emailed by The Washington Post. “But unfortunately, the only solution is to perform.”

After one of Esteban’s races, a representative from a management company approached. The boy had the talent to make racing his career, the man said, but it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

Thousands of European kids grow up dreaming of the Formula One life, waiting to pilot a rocket at circuits such as Monza and Silverstone and Monaco. Most never make it, and even those who only come close do so after millions have been spent on equipment, travel and engineering.

The families of many drivers commit hundreds of thousands before their child becomes a teenager, largely to get noticed by top feeder programs and driver academies. Among the hopefuls are the kids of billionaires and oligarchs, able to bankroll the pursuit of a nine-figure dream. A few even pay their way onto the F1 grid, with cash-strapped teams agreeing because it transfers the financial responsibility.

Most, though, spend years working their way up.

“Even if you are talented,” Esteban says, “if you don’t have the right people, you don’t manage.”

But all he had were his parents.

“If he really wants to do it,” Esteban remembers hearing Laurent say years ago, “we’ll give him everything we can.”

LAURENT AND SABRINA SOLD THEIR HOUSE and the family business, leaving behind anything that didn’t fit in a 21-foot motor home. They stuffed Esteban’s mini-kart into the rear of a van, surrounded it with tools and Esteban’s toys, then hitched the motor home to the van’s rear.

“Prepping,” Esteban’s parents told him, “for the rest of your life.”

With Évreux in the rearview, home now was a parking lot in Lyon or a roadside in Le Mans. Ten-year-old Esteban had his bicycle and the family border collie to keep him company. Sabrina outfitted the motor home with a fake fireplace and told friends it was their mobile chateau. Le Palais des Ocons had a living room and shared sleeping quarters, with views that were a mountain some days, a vineyard others.

Sabrina and Laurent convinced their son that each day was an adventure, each morning a chance for Esteban to open the door so he and their dog, Viper, could breathe in a dramatic new backdrop. He and Laurent sometimes went on long bicycle rides, where they talked about engines, racing, the future. Then the convoy headed to a nearby track, where the soft-spoken Esteban slid on a helmet, climbed into his kart and transformed into an assassin. There wasn’t an opening he wouldn’t hit, a pass he wouldn’t attempt, a throat he wouldn’t cut. Esteban wanted to win races, yes, but victory was about more than bragging rights.

In his 9-year-old mind, he says, it was the only way to repay his parents.

“I had weight on my shoulders very early,” he says. “There was never a Plan B in my head.”

In 2006, Esteban, then 10, won the regional mini-kart championship, which qualified him for a spot in the French Cup’s “Minime” division. He reached the final heat, and he and another young star, Charles Leclerc, angled for positioning on the last lap. Esteban went inside, trying to overtake Leclerc, and their tires touched. Leclerc spun out and hit the wall; Esteban recovered but finished outside the top five. The two boys spent the rest of the day crying.

The family returned to Évreux each winter, staying with family so Esteban could attend a few months of school before the new season. Otherwise, they kept moving, rarely in the same place for more than a few days.

Esteban won the French Cup in 2007, the “Cadet” title a year later, the junior championship in 2010. With every promotion came longer trips and more expensive gear. An entry-level “baby” kart costs about $3,000, not including registration fees and fuel, and a used mini-kart engine and chassis can be twice that.

By 2011, with a promotion to Winning Series Karting, the chateau was crossing borders so Esteban could race in Spain, Italy and Portugal. Entry fees alone were upward of $5,000 per race, with fuel and spare parts pushing the cost higher. All youth sports have their own unique cultures, and in this one, there is an established taboo: Kids don’t talk about their parents’ wealth.

But chatter happens anyway. Jos Verstappen, father of 14-year-old Max, used to drive in Formula One and spent $1 million bankrolling his son’s career. Leclerc grew up among the yachts and Ferraris of Monaco, and Lance Stroll’s dad, Lawrence, was a fashion billionaire.

Esteban’s folks?

Homeless, the other boys murmured. Sometimes, they said, they even saw his dad lurking near the circuit, waiting to pull other drivers’ used tires out of the trash.

IN 2014, OCON, THEN 18, won nine races and finished in the top three in 21 of 33 races to claim Europe’s Formula Three championship. But it was 17-year-old Verstappen, who had finished third, who was promoted seven months later and became the youngest driver ever to appear on the F1 grid.

“My dad always said it’s not going to be easy,” Ocon says now. “I didn’t really know what my future would be.”

He spent the 2015 season with Mercedes and Lotus — discussed alongside Verstappen, George Russell and Gasly as the sport’s next generation of starsbut still toiling in its minor leagues.

The next season, another young driver, Indonesia’s Rio Haryanto, won a spot with Manor Racing, a fledgling F1 team from Britain. F1 teams today operate under an annual maximum budget. Back then, though,the annual cost for a two-car team could reach nearly $200 million per year. Some teams have lucrative sponsorship agreements and investments from engine manufacturers, but others rely only on prize money and the potential share of a year-end financial pie that is distributed to the teams that finish in the top 10 in points.

Haryanto started the first 12 races that year before Manor dropped him — and not just because he never finished better than 15th. It was because Haryanto, initially backed by a $16.65 million investment from an Indonesian oil and gas company, ran out of money.

Manor’s own survival depended on performance, so in August 2016, it contacted the most talented driver available and told 19-year-old Esteban to get to Belgium. A management company had agreed to underwrite Ocon’s career, so with the motor home now retired, the family traveled by plane.

“A lot of emotions and relief,” Laurent recalls. “The culmination of 16 years.”

FOUR MONTHS AFTER ESTEBAN’S F1 DEBUT, with the sport itself at a crossroads, Manor Racing announced it was broke.

It was January 2017, and this was the first of several dominos to tumble.

The next was that Force India, a well-funded team and a new contender, offered Esteban a multiyear contract after its No. 2 driver, Nico Hülkenberg, defected for Renault. With an elite car, Esteban finished seventh in Russia, fifth in Barcelona, sixth in Montreal — valuable points for his team and proof he belonged.

Then, in Azerbaijan, Ocon saw an opening. He tried to pass Sergio Perez, his Force India teammate, before their wheels touched. A moment later, he went for it again, contacting Perez’s car and damaging both vehicles.

“What did Esteban do, guys?” Perez said on his headset radio. He later called Ocon’s behavior “unacceptable.”

Three races later, Ocon again collided with Perez in Hungary, and a week later in Belgium, Ocon tried to pass his teammate on the inside. The cars made contact, Perez’s front wing flew off, and the veteran driver’s anger exploded.

“Honestly, what the f--- is this guy doing?” Perez said. “F---ing idiot.”

High drama — which, considering the sport’s new ownership, was undoubtably welcome.

Long owned by a European private equity fund, Formula One had recently been purchased by Liberty Media, an American entertainment titan that parlayed its ownership of struggling assets, from satellite radio to the Discovery Channel and QVC, into ownership of the Atlanta Braves. It wasalready planning the all-access Netflix docuseries that would debut in 2019 — less than a year before the pandemic. When the sports calendar ground to a halt, “Drive to Survive” became a massive hit that sent each team’s value soaring.

Sponsors and investors were fighting for a piece of a sports gold rush. Not everyone could keep up, though. Force India’s owner, Vijay Mallya, defaulted on more than $1 billion in loans after his airline failed, before numerous banks accused him of fraud. (Mallya has called these accusations “rubbish” but, after fleeing India for England, is still considered a fugitive.) He sold his team to a group of investors led by Canadian billionaire Lawrence Stroll, who had made his fortune on the threads of Tommy Hilfiger and Michael Kors. And who happened to have a son, Lance, who drove, if not very well, for Williams Mercedes.

Just like that, it was Ocon being bumped, his dream blown to pieces by his own team. When the 2019 season started, he was out of a job. He blamed “politics.”

He joined Mercedes as a reserve driver, and during race weekends, he says, he would climb into a racing simulator and go through scenario after scenario until 4 a.m. On no sleep, he would go to the airport and travel to wherever F1 was because that’s also where Ocon could meet with potential investors, sponsors and engineers. Then, a week later, he would do it all again.

“I didn’t care because I said, ‘Let’s give it a full go,’ show the people how hungry I am,” he says. Failure, he told himself, would mean that his parents’ sacrifices had been in vain.

“I didn’t do all that just to sit on the side,” he continues. “Teams saw how much I was willing to give, how much I was willing to suffer. I wanted to show everyone that I’m willing to go further than anyone else. No sleep for three straight days, simulator day and night, I’m going to do it. And, yes, I’ve lost four kilos in that year and got sick seven or eight times, and the reality is, yes, I’ve suffered and it was tough. And I don’t want to be suffering forever.”

In late summer 2019, with the first season of “Drive to Survive” being filmed, Ocon’s phone rang. Renault was parting ways with Hülkenberg. The French team wanted the kid from Évreux to come home.

“A crazy moment,” Ocon says. “This was it. The tough times are over now.”

LAST YEAR IN MONACO, something happened that was highly disruptive: Ocon finished third. It was his third appearance on the podium and his best result since he won the Hungarian Grand Prix in 2021. In one of Europe’s nightclub capitals, the 27-year-old celebrated. Hard.

Fatigued, dehydrated and emotionally drained, Ocon again got sick. He was nonetheless due back on the grid in Barcelona four days later. He finished eighth in each of his next two races, then 14th, then didn’t finish the two after that.

Nobody weeps for the motorsports rock star, but a life spent in constant motion does take a toll. A year after signing with Renault, which rebranded as Alpine, Ocon was reportedly paid $5 million per year. He put Laurent and Sabrina on the payroll of “Team Esteban,” he says, assigning his mother administrative tasks and his father responsibilities such as renovating Esteban’s house. He could also hire a performance coach to keep his body and mind sharp — or as sharp as possible in a sport whose schedule features two dozen stops around the globe.

Now, years after Laurent and Sabrina tried shielding their son from many of racing’s pressures, it is Tom Clark’s job to act as Ocon’s conscience. To tell him it’s okay to sleep in on weekends, to grab a nap after practice, to avoid media and fans because more interactions mean more exposure to pathogens.To urge him to eat more lean protein and complex carbohydrates, stay ahead of time zones by wearing sunglasses to simulate darkness, use a light therapy lamp or glasses that emit a bright glow above the eyes. To encourage him to take it easy sometimes, especially when it comes to challenging teammates, and maybe to even think about gearing things down a tad.

“Let’s really just put a bubble around you,” Clark says he tells Ocon.

The problem is this is in conflict with the instincts that got Ocon here. Without deprivation and exhaustion, would he have ever left Évreux? If not for aggressive racing and a ruthless competitive drive, could he have even reached the grid? Especially when it comes to challenging teammates, can’t he gear things down a tad?

ON THE FIRST LAP at this year’s Monaco Grand Prix, there’s Gasly in 10th place. Ocon is 11th. Points are awarded to only the top-10 finishers.

The Alpine drivers have known each other since childhood, their hometowns just 20 minutes apart, friends scratching and clawing for better footing. When they were 12, both were in the same championship race. Gasly overtook Ocon on the last lap to win. “I kicked his ass,” Gasly told the Netflix documentary crew, “and he didn’t like it.”

Not long after, the French racing federation had an opening at its sports academy in Le Mans, a kind of Hogwarts for kid racers. It was Gasly who got the invitation, not the mechanic’s son. The friendship crumbled, just one more thing Ocon left behind as he boarded the motor home once more, looking to win races, yes, but also in search of acceptance.

“But look where I am now,” he says. “That has helped me to get through a lot of steps in my life. That’s what made me so competitive, I guess, from so early on.”

Ocon and Gasly hadcollided in 2023, too, in Australia, with both cars taking race-ending damage. After that, tension between the teammates boiled over when Gasly accused Alpine of coddling Ocon. Before Monaco, the team told the pair to cool it.

And they did, for all of 40 seconds. Now, seeing that narrow opening, Ocon goes for it.

His rear tire connects with Gasly’s front wheel once, then a second time, sending a bitter cloud of burned rubber into the sea air. Ocon’s car goes airborne before turning sideways, and though it lands on its wheels, the impact causes catastrophic damage.

“What did he do?” Gasly says into his radio.

Pieces of carbon fiber fly off Ocon’s car. The tire is punctured, the gearbox fried, the suspension arm broken.

“That’s it, guys,” Ocon tells his team. His Grand Prix is finished.

Needing repairs that will cost tens of thousands and with Ocon’s car due in Montreal in 10 days, Bruno Famin, Alpine’s team principal, publicly admonishes Ocon and vows “consequences.” F1’s governing body, the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile, penalizes Ocon after ruling he initiated the collision.

A week after Monaco, Alpine announces that, in 2025, it will replace one of its drivers. Neither had gotten a podium, and only Ocon had won a point for Alpine. But the team chooses to keep Gasly, meaning Ocon again will be set adrift, the [wanderer] seemingly destined to forever roam.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, Esteban and Laurent went for a long bike ride. The old man still lives near Évreux, operating a shop his son bought him. He still likes to work on cars and make music, albeit as more hobby than job, andprefers to traverse the countryside on an e-bike.

Even against his dad, Esteban can’t help himself.

“I still pull away,” he says.

First, though,during a quieter moment on a recent ride, Laurent told his son a story.

There was once another boy with talent and ambition, the story went, hoping to someday become a professional cyclist. He was as skilled as anyone, but the other kids had access to training and coaches that this boy’sfamily couldn’t afford. So lying in bed one night when he was 16, he succumbed to these economic realities and abandoned his dream, diverting his attention and passion into becoming a mechanic.

So, he went on, when that boy became a man and a husband and a dad, he and his wife agreed to do everything possible to position their son for success. To tell him about possibility, not limitation, and raise him in an environment that would eliminate regret.

“He had never told that story,” Esteban says. “That moment, basically, when he was lying on the bed like that, probably changed my life. They clearly gave more than what they could, and without them I wouldn’t be here.”

Esteban says he occasionally fantasizes about what it would be like to stay in one place: to stop moving, inhale, feel settled. Maybe someday, he says, but not just yet. In July, after Ocon was two months adrift, Kevin Magnussen announced he would be leaving Haas.

Haas, as it happens, is run by Ayao Komatsu, a former F1 engineer who had met and encouraged Esteban when he was just a teenager. A decade later, Komatsu came through. Haas offered Ocon not only a seat for 2025 but acceptance for all the things he is and is not.

“Esteban, he needs an environment that he knows the team is behind him, supporting him, listening to him,” Komatsu says. “No politics. I believe we can provide that.”

But what about the suggestion that Ocon doesn’t play well with others? That you can never take the Évreux fully out of the kid?

“If I was worried about that,” Komatsu says, “I wouldn’t sign him.”

After their bikeride, Laurent and Esteban turned around but kept talking over the wind. Farmland and hills blurred past, same as they did years ago, and a favorite memory of Esteban’s sprung to mind. It was morning, and the 12-year-old awoke in the motor home again with no idea where he was. So he opened the door to see blue sky, the slopes of great mountains, the shoreline of the Mediterranean.

Laurent had parked the van and motor home in Monaco, where yachts are moored and the best drivers live. Esteban remembers the feeling of that moment, the possibility, and his dad stepped out and said there was nothing to stop his son from racing here someday. Whatever came next would be determined by Esteban.

“There was no guarantee,” Esteban recalls his dad saying. But the boy had a chance to prove he belonged. Picturing the momentyears later, he inhaled, kept pedaling and let Laurent catch up as the two of them headed home.

#used a site to remove the paywall #so here is the whole article for those interested! <3 #esteban ocon #f1 #btw the things i put in brackets is bc the author used the g slur and while i get the implication #of este always being on the move in the caravan and now as adult as well #i still think it is a bit in poor taste #also be aware that this author has zero wheel knowledge bc he mentions incidents that were simply not este's fault #and feed into the dumb bad teammate narrative

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narrans · 1 month ago

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A Small and Tall Collection | Chapter Ten | Battle Scars and Boundaries

Chapter Ten | Battle Scars and Boundaries

Her entire body shook violently. Unable to keep anything down and running on a completely empty tank was obviously taking its toll on her, but Ashlynn didn’t care. She had to get out of there – and now.

Trapped in a drawer just a few inches taller than she was, the Borrower woman knew she had maybe a minute before the human man named Soren showed back up with something that was either going to contain her or maim her so she couldn’t escape. She drew her injured arm close to her chest, afraid to use the tender limb, and glanced up at the edge of the drawer.

On occasions where she had to jump and catch herself, she would use her right arm or both arms to support her weight. This time was going to be different, and she only had the one shot. Her heart was starting to thump louder and louder, creating a roaring sound in her ears while her head throbbed.

Jump. Catch. Swing. Get away.

Ashlynn stood on the socks to give her a minute boost up and, bending her shaking legs, sprung up with as much energy as she could muster. Her fingertips barely cleared the top, but her grip didn’t last. The edges of the drawer were rounded, something she didn’t account for, and her weakened body couldn’t maintain her hold on it.

No! Curses! Come on… one more time. You’ve got to get out of here.

Ashlynn gritted her teeth and crouched again before jumping as high as she could. This time, she felt a groove in the wood as her fingers slid over the side of the drawer. She latched onto it. Even as she felt a dull throb begin in her palm as her nails bent backwards, she held on as tightly as she could. Her instinct and sheer will to live helped drive her leg upward, heel snagging the edge of the drawer.

Yes!

Ashlynn had just barely managed to drag herself up onto the edge when she noticed her surroundings within the human man’s room – and it wasn’t good.

From her vantage point, she could see there were two closets at the far end of the room next to the door. There was some kind of large cabinet she remembered him getting not too long ago and a bedside table that was at least a foot from the bed, which was where she was. The drawer she’d been carried here in was on the bed in the dead center. The good news was that if she fell now, it wouldn’t be the end of her.

The bad news was that there was no clear way down.

If she were on the bedside table, she could’ve used the weird looking lamp cord to belay down to the ground, but that was too far away for her to jump in her current state. Perched up high where she was, Ashlynn could see that the blankets on the bed draped over the edge, but she couldn’t remember if they went all the way to the ground.

Did she dare risk the climb and the potential drop down for the chance at freedom? And, if she made it to the ground, could she make it to a loose electrical socket in time before Soren got back?

All of this thinking was making Ashlynn’s head spin, but every dizzying thought came to a screeching halt when she heard a soft, “Oh,” of surprise come from the door.

She’d been looking all around the room instead of the one place that really mattered most – the door. Standing there was Soren holding some kind of red case in one hand and a clear plastic container with a turquoise lid in the other. It startled her so badly that, out of sheer instinct, Ashlynn leaned backwards to try and duck away from being seen by those almost golden eyes.

It was a mistake.

Her already poor balance sent her off of the edge of the drawer. She didn’t fall far, but her lack of balance and slowed reaction times left Ashlynn landing directly onto her injured arm. The squashy blankets did nothing to cushion the fall. A scream of agony erupted out of her before Ashlynn even had time to fully register the pain. Like hot coals being shoved beneath her skin, the burning throb in her arm reminded her of how little she could do now.

Fresh tears sprung to her eyes and she shoved her free hand into her mouth to prevent another vocalization; but did it really matter at this point? Did it count as talking to a human if they heard you scream? The shock of the weight of the body slamming into her injured arm sent a ripping shock wave through her body and, all at once, the nausea returned and the gag she’d suppressed came out of her.

What little bile was left in her spurted out onto the comforter, making Ashlynn burn hot in embarrassment and shame, but also fear. The one oldest human seemed reasonable, but would he have the same kindness now that she’d gotten sick on his bed? No coherent thought surfaced as Ashlynn lay there on the bed cradling her injured arm, the smell of her stomach acid permeating through the air.

This is it. He’s going to come over here and grab me. It’s over. I can’t get away. I can’t escape. I have to be a pet. All that stuff Soren said was just for show. Real person… yeah…

Those two words rang in Ashlynn’s head.

Real person…

He called me a real person. And… and he’s not over here.

Ashlynn’s concept of time was discombobulated, but what she did know was that some time had passed, and Soren wasn’t hovering over her handling her and picking her up to put her back into the box. Even with her eyes stinging from the salty tears, Ashlynn realized she had to look. She reluctantly let her eyes travel from where she was toward the door where she had seen Soren.

To her surprise and utter relief, he hadn’t moved. Not even an inch.

His jaw was locked, and his hazel gold eyes were transfixed on her. The expression on his face was a hard one to read, but Ashlynn knew she didn’t see malice. Concern? Worry? Unease? Eagerness? She wasn’t sure, and her blurring vision wasn’t helping.

What else wasn’t helping was the fact she didn’t know what Soren was thinking; and she wasn’t alone in that feeling.

Soren had stepped away just for a second to grab his medical kit as his mind scrambled to comprehend what had happened over the past ten minutes. A small woman was found in his brothers’ bedroom, and she was sick and injured. His brothers were upset, but they also needed a lecture about the importance of asking for help and also the importance and value of life, no matter how small. He’d just woken up. Part of him wondered if all of this was just a dream.

Then, the moment he made it back to his bedroom to tend to the first of many objectives he needed to tackle, he was greeted with the scene of that same small woman balancing precariously on the edge of the drawer he thought she was contained in before she fell onto the bed, landing harshly on her injured arm. Guilt riddled his mind as he realized he had made some sound of surprise, which probably surprised her. His heart lurched when he heard the woman scream in agony followed by the sound of her gag and subsequent vomiting. The instinct to rush over and make sure she was okay had never been stronger in his life. It was ingrained into who he was. So often he’d rush to his brothers’ sides when something was wrong, but now he forced himself to wait.

She’s hurt.

She’s scared.

She’s sick.

She’s probably alone.

She doesn’t know me.

I have to treat this like ground zero for anyone else. I’ve done this a million times. This is just a million plus one… a very… very… small… one.

Soren felt some switch in the back of his mind flick on and, just like that, his facial expression neutralized. He felt his pulse slow and his mind quiet. For several minutes, Soren simply froze in place and waited as the small woman shivered. It was when his impulse was to take a cautious step forward that the small woman opened her eyes after averting her gaze from him all this time and slowly let herself look at him.

There was no way to know what she was thinking, but Soren knew he needed to start working on her arm as soon as possible. He had to risk saying something to her first. The words usually came to him when he was out in the field working on one case or another. Trusting himself, he took a slow, deep breath and cleared his throat.

“Hey there, little miss. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare or startle you,” Soren stated gently. His heart started to quicken, but he let himself continue. When there was no response, Soren continued. “And… I’m sorry for the way you were treated. Dorian and Rey are young. Just kids. They’ve given me plenty of battle scars too, all from being careless kids. They should know better, but I’m sure they didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s not like them to do something like this on purpose.”

Ashlynn wasn’t sure where Soren was going with this apology, if that’s what it even was, but now she felt like the conversation was being tossed back to her. Was Soren expecting a response? Should she respond? Would saying something help her or hurt her?

No. It’s a trick. I’ve got to refrain from speaking. A scream of pain doesn’t count, right? Don’t all creatures make sounds when hurt?

“Well, I’m here to… I guess… try and make it up to you? You don’t look like you’re feeling well, and your arm is either broken or dislocated. I couldn’t tell which from a glance. I know how to fix stuff like that. So, I’m asking if it’s okay for me to help you.” Soren’s words hung in the air for several, long seconds while Ashlynn processed them.

Do I want a human grabbing and poking and prodding me? No. No! Of course not!

Ashlynn glanced from Soren to her arm as her fingers tingled numbly.

Then again… do I really have a choice?

I can’t get away like this.

I’m sick.

I’m hurt.

I’m alone.

Ashlynn looked back at Soren and then back to her arm.

He might be my only chance at fixing what’s wrong with my arm. I might have to trust him…

The thought was a nauseating one, and one Ashlynn was uneasy to accept. At the same time, what other choice did she have?

The expression must’ve been easy to read on her face because Soren cleared his throat again before asking, “Why don’t we start fresh, yeah? You don’t know me. I don’t know you. So, let’s start at ground zero. My name is Soren. I’m twenty-two years old. My favorite color is pale mint green. I have a sixth sense. Finally, I have a knack for helping people. There. Your turn.”

Ashlynn’s heart raced. She wasn’t sure what to do. The Borrower woman was in the same precarious situation as she was before, but now time was running out. What would happen if Soren wanted the answers now and wouldn’t help her unless she responded? Would she suffer because of her silence?

Soren’s light chuckle drew her attention back to the human across the room. “Well, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I mean, the point is for you to get to know me, right? Earn trust, not just give it away?”

Ashlynn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This had to be fake, right?

“Tell you what. If you want me to leave… no, that won’t work either because I don’t know if you can understand and because you might not feel like talking,” sighed Soren. “Okay, new plan. I’m just going to talk this out in case you do understand, which I believe you do. Regardless of how you feel about me, it doesn’t change that your arm is hurt. So, slowly, I’m going to come over there and I’m going to fix your arm.

“If you don’t want that, say something. Back away. Squeak. Throw something. Anything. If you do understand, just… be patient with me, and I’ll do the same. Right? We’ll make some boundaries from there.” Ashlynn had to give kudos to Soren. He certainly was direct and thinking of every scenario. Was this what happened when you had kids? Especially two rowdy boys? There were obvious flaws with Soren’s plan with trying to communicate with someone who didn’t want to talk, but no one was perfect. If Ashlynn was being honest, it was the best case scenario.

She clenched her teeth and, as her head swirled, forced herself to hold still as Soren slowly took the first step forward. He took another. Then another. Each step felt like he was right there on top of Ashlynn, but it wasn’t until he was actually there beside the bed kneeling that the Borrower woman started to lose her nerve. The true moment she felt like breaking was when she craned her neck to look up into the human’s hazel eyes and swore she saw tiny flecks of green mixed in with those pools of gold.

Her whole body was shaking. Thoughts raced around her mind while being sucked into the void like dust bunnies succumbing to the vacuum cleaner hose. Only now did she register that Soren was still speaking to her, saying the same thing repeatedly.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

Now merely a foot or so away from her, Soren could see minute details of the tiny woman’s face. The way her features twitched and shifted from resolved to absolute panic. The glistening sweat from her forehead. Every shiver and shake as she obviously fought off every impulse to run. Most importantly, he could see even beneath her oversized clothing that her arm was dislocated and not broken.

Heavens… she’s so human. I can’t imagine being that small. What does the world look like from her eyes? What do I look like?... probably some kind of monster.

Soren’s brief thought let him reflect momentarily on what he wanted to say next. Already, his practical mind was switching into high gear again. He’d helped do so many things in the field before like popping in dislocated shoulders and reviving people who had lost consciousness. He’d never felt so nervous to do what had always come so natural to him.

Get it together. It’s just like all the others. Just smaller. Just take a breath.

Soren followed his advice before setting down the medical supplies he brought with him and focusing on the miniscule woman in front of him.

“Okay. First things first, yeah? Let’s get your arm taken care of?” Soren asked. He received no response, but he didn’t really need to. All he needed to do was inform and perform. “Right. So, I’m going to walk you through this first, okay? What I need to do is slip your arm back into joint. It’s dislocated, not broken. It’s a good thing. Now, I’ll need to touch your arm and your shoulder to get everything back into place. Okay? It’s going to hurt, but after it will feel much better.”

Ashlynn didn’t like the sound of any of what Soren said. Touching. Hurting. Joints. The only acceptable parts were that it wasn’t broken and that it would feel better.

Ashlynn watched as Soren’s fingers crested over the edge of the bed, fingers slightly splayed in a surrendering motion and hovered there for several long seconds. The Borrower woman choked back a sob as she saw Soren’s immense fingers beginning to approach her. Every horrible scenario filled her head and flashed before her eyes. Those fingers wrapping around her, crushing her with as much ease as breaking a cracker. Her fears surrounded her, making the Borrower feel small and powerless. She had no voice. She had no way of escape.

“Hey, little miss, it’s okay. I promise.” Soren’s voice, deep and soothing like a summer rain, was so close that it sounded all encompassing. Unlike her fears of being contained in the fleshy digits, however, the sound of the human’s words was like that of a stack of blankets on a cold winter day. Comforting. Warm. When he said she would be okay, Ashlynn felt like she could believe him.

“Please… will you let me fix your arm?” asked Soren in a tone Ashlynn could only describe as earnest and pleading. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps there was something pleading in Soren’s eyes that was just enough to convince her. Ashlynn glanced from the human inches from her down to her cradled arm before, after several agonizing moments, she held out her injured appendage.

It was with increasing difficulty that she felt the tips of her fingers. Even stretching out her arm made her wince. She felt a whimper in her throat, but kept it down as she kept her arm extended. Ashlynn could’ve sworn that she saw Soren’s eyes flare with curiosity and wonder, which he clearly kept at bay as he slowly reached out toward her.

The tips of his fingers easily dwarfed the small woman’s entire arm. Soren knew he had to be careful to not cause more damage, and he hoped she could forgive him. Based on the way it looked and the way she was moving, Soren recognized the injury – a dislocation. Before, he wasn’t sure, but now he was. The pads of his thumb and index finger gingerly grasped the woman’s forearm, making her lean away as her chest rose and fell rapidly.

This is crazy. This is crazy. Both thought silently at the same time.

“So, good news and bad news. Bad news is this is going to hurt a lot. Good news is that your arm isn’t broken, so your recovery time is going to be a lot shorter,” said Soren. Ashlynn’s eyes flicked up to Soren, down to her arm, and then back up to the human whose fingers now practically encased her limb.

Okay. Not broken. I can work with that.

“Okay, there’s two parts to this,” stated Soren as he placed his other fingers by her shoulder. Her eyes, which Soren could see now were a stormy blue gray, were wide open while she continued to suck in beath after breath. I need to be quicker so she doesn’t freak out. “First, I need to get your arm into the right position. Second, I’ll need to pull up and toward you to get your shoulder back into joint. Don’t be afraid to pass out or scream if you need to. It’s going to hurt. Now, lay back on your back and I’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Ashlynn hated this. Every moment the human man’s fingers were on her was one more second she could feel his steady pulse surrounding her limb. It was one moment closer to her screaming at him to get away. It was one more moment of agony she was subjecting herself to. She hated that, with no effort, he was able to guide her body backwards onto the bed.

The faster he does this, the sooner he’ll leave, and you can get out of here. Ashlynn thought over and over.

“Don’t tense up, and I’ll go on three. Ready?” asked Soren. Ashlynn gritted her teeth as she braced herself. “One… Two… Thr-…” Ashlynn didn’t hear Soren finish the last word. Everything happened so fast. She watched as Soren rolled her arm with ease in between his fingers as he pulled her arm ever so slightly away from her body. The twisting sensation made her head spin, but the distinct *crack* was what made Ashlynn cry out as her vision darkened.

Her ears were ringing, clouding all other senses she possessed, when her vision started coming back. Reverberations in the air shifted and fluctuated around her. There was a slight pressure on her shoulder before it subsided again. The pressure and pain were gone, and sweet relief had replaced it. Ashlynn clenched and unclenched her fist and a smile spread across her face as no stabbing pain ripped through her.

The Borrower woman blinked a few times, vision clearing up, and she could see the blurry face of Soren leaning slightly over her. Something was in his hands, which were eclipsing her returning vision. Her instincts returned and she attempted to sit up and push herself away when she felt another twinge in her arm.

“Hey… hey there… little miss. You passed out on me there for a second. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Soren’s voice still sounded a bit muffled, but Ashlynn popped her ears a few times as he spoke, and his words became clearer with each word. He held up something that looked like a white cloth diamond. “I know your arm probably feels a lot better right now, but it’s going to be really tender and sore. Okay? So, you need to not use it and put it in something called a sling. It’ll keep your arm still while it heals.”

Ashlynn didn’t like the sound of that. Holding still? Not being able to use her dominant arm? Was this a trick? Or was this real? Soren’s fingers were fast approaching, and Ashlynn suddenly found herself scooting back until her back was pressed against the wood of the drawer that was her confinement the night before. Soren stopped and retracted his hands, sighing only for a moment as he thought about how to best address the issue. He saw distrust and unease as clearly as the sun peeking through the wintery clouds looming in the sky.

What would I do in her shoes? A massive person tells me I can’t leave and that I need to get better.

He looked earnestly into her stormy blue gray eyes and offered a look of sympathy, muttering, “Yeah, I’d have a hard time believing me too.”

This got Ashlynn’s attention. In just a single look, Soren was able to figure out what was causing the issue. He could place himself in her shoes with such ease that it almost felt unnerving. If a dull throbbing wasn’t starting to intensify in her previously dislocated shoulder, Ashlynn would have dismissed Soren’s words instantly.

Seems like he’s telling the truth. I can’t lift myself like this, especially if it’s going to be more painful than this. Ashlynn interrupted her own thought with a round of coughing before focusing back on Soren, who had the same look of concern in his eyes as he did when he first entered the room and saw her fall. He’s been right so far…

“Tell you what. Um… why don’t we… set some boundaries, yeah? Things I’m allowed or not allowed to do. Sound good?” Soren asked. Ashlynn thought about it. It wasn’t the worst idea he’d suggested. The real question wasn’t about boundaries though – it was how she was going to tell him what she did or didn’t want. It required her talking to him.

Do I talk to him? To keep from talking to him? To keep him from touching me?

“I get it. Lots of stuff happening all at once. You might be feeling the symptoms of shock as well as you being sick, but we’ll start with no touching or approaching without some kind of indicator. You seem to be the most scared of that,” muttered Soren. “And, with that being said, instead of me helping you with the sling, I’ll show you how to put it on and you do the rest. Okay?”

Ashlynn swallowed hard, feeling the nasty gloss the mucus had coated her throat with, and glanced from Soren’s hazel gold eyes to the small diamond cloth in his fingers. What on earth is this guy? A mind reader?

Soren wished he could read the small woman’s mind. It would be so much easier than guessing based only on body language and facial expressions. Whether for better or worse, Soren had delt with a lot of people of all ages in circumstances very similar to the miniscule woman currently curled up on his bed. He’d helped children, the elderly, and one too many drunks as well as a collection of everyone in between. Having two young brothers who sometimes struggled with their words didn’t hurt either.

“Well?” Soren prompted. “Sound okay?”

Ashlynn bit her lip and looked between Soren and the cloth again.

“Well, just in case you change your mind about me helping you, here’s how this goes.” Soren proceeded to show her using a pillowcase from his closet how to tie the top of the cloth around his neck in order to support his arm. He demonstrated everything as simply as he could before offering the cloth to Ashlynn.

Ashlynn, head throbbing slightly, leaned forward and snagged the cloth once Soren’s fingers were far enough away. It took her a couple of tries, but she managed to tie a knot in the end and tightened it with her teeth before sliding it over her head and lifting her sore arm into it. The whole time, Soren watched in wonder as the small woman followed his instructions perfectly, even remembering to tuck in the flap at the end to make sure her arm didn’t slide out as easily.

He decided not to make a comment about it, fearing he would make her self-conscious and shut down from future understandings and instructions, and instead grabbed a bottle of water from his kit and filled the lid with water.

“Thirsty?” he asked as he balanced the lid onto the tip of his finger. Ashlynn looked eagerly at the clear plastic cap and the clear liquid it contained. Every part of her craved water except for her throat, which felt swollen and slick. She’d tried keeping water down before but hadn’t had much luck. The Borrower woman knew she needed to try again though, regardless. So, when Soren’s finger approached slowly, she fought the urge to shy away and hauled the cap into her lap where she took small handfuls of water from her unbandaged hand.

The cool water offered little relief and, in fact, made her feel colder. The threat of nausea returned after a few seconds. Soren, however, seemed to have a plan for that. He had already placed a cracker onto a piece of tissue after crushing some of the corners and middle parts before sliding it across the bed.

“You probably need something to eat too, huh?” he asked.

Ashlynn stared eagerly at the broken saltines. She could practically smell their freshness even through her stuffy nose. Soren’s hand approached and, for the first time, she managed to clearly see some of the scars scattered about on his fingers. Some were scrapes and others were cuts, all varying in age. Most of them looked like burns.

Battle scars? Ashlynn thought quietly. What from though?

Ashlynn didn’t feel like spending the energy on trying to figure out what those marks on the human’s hand meant. For now, eating and drinking something and then keeping it down was her primary focus. The moment his fingers were far enough away, Ashlynn leaned forward and snagged a few of the fragments. She nibbled cautiously, drinking a few sips of water after each bite and waiting a moment to see how her churning insides would react. She hadn’t had a proper meal in days, and now she felt like she could finally keep some of it down.

After she finished a few fragments of cracker and part of the cap full of water, she felt her eyelids beginning to droop. The adrenaline that was keeping her upright was now completely depleted, and staying awake wasn’t an option anymore. The unease of falling asleep in the presence of a human also was a fleeting thought that Ashlynn was quickly losing her battle to.

A flicker of movement caused her to open her eyes once more, but what she saw made something in her chest and cheeks warm. Soren had another fragment of soft, fuzzy cloth he’d pulled from the other side of the bed and had set it near her side.

“Alright then, little miss. Looks like you’re getting sleepy, yeah? Okay. I’m going to leave and make sure the boys don’t bother you. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. If you need anything, you let me know. And don’t hurt yourself getting down or anything, okay? Just get some rest and we’ll talk arrangements… well… I’ll probably talk arrangements, and you’ll probably listen. Anyway, sleep well,” said Soren gently.

Ashlynn didn’t need to be told twice. Before Soren had even left the room, she’d pulled the blanket over her injured shoulder and had laid down on her side, sleep dragging her into darkness in a matter of seconds. The Borrower wasn’t sure if trusting the human was a good or bad decision, but there was no going back now.

Desperation brought her to the brink, and now holding onto the word and a few kind actions of a being she thought would treat her inhumanely was all she had.

She hoped it would be enough.

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Continue

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A Tall and Small Collection | Original Story

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