THE SHORTCUT

Not all shortcuts are meant to be taken.

As a child, she loved shortcuts. The mystery of the journey was the reward. She crept through neighborhood alleys like a tiny sleuth, dodging lashing branches and ducking behind garbage cans at the sight of wild-eyed squirrels with twitchy nerves and questionable motives. Her imagination ran wild. What was around the next corner? A secret door? Buried treasure? A portal? The possibilities made her giggle with excitement.
She had boundaries then, and she kept them.
But the years marched on, and the magic faded. Her sense of adventure dulled beneath the humdrum of getting older. She stopped seeking shortcuts. She kept her eyes ahead. Corners became hazards, not mysteries.
Until one day, she was late.
Walking the long way wasn’t an option. She remembered a staircase—a steep, unused passage between two neighborhoods, like a disputed border between rival countries. She’d never taken it. Her stomach fluttered, equal parts fear and thrill. But logic prevailed: a straight line is the fastest path between two points.
She ran.
The sun was high, casting hard shadows down the alley-walled staircase. Stones sparkled like they were warning her away. She reached the halfway point before they began.
A barrage of garbage—launched from above. She dodged plastic bags, slipped past banana peels, then caught the splash of dirty water down her back. She ran faster. They were relentless, silent, faceless. Shadow people who vanished just as she reached the bottom.
She didn’t look back.
The bus arrived like a miracle. She climbed in, soaked and shaking, and took her seat. Trash had been the only thing thrown. She told herself that mattered.
She arrived home.
Her grandfather looked up from his paper.
“How was the trip?”
She paused.
“Fine,” she said.