You back shyly away from George, watching as her now bare feet return to the ground with a dull thud, her mules remaining discarded beside them like the walls of some medieval castle.
Aware that you are walking out from under the table and into the aisle, you quickly turn away from your humungous friend and put your thoughts more into getting out of the open. One of the invigilators could wander by and randomly squash you without you even knowing!
You hurry beneath another of the blissful desks, taking comfort from the shade it provides from the merciless lights overhead. Best not to count your blessings too soon, though - there are some feet under here as well.
Like George's, they could easily pass for exceptionally big oil tanker trucks in bad light. They are, however, sheathed within sneakers, meaning that the wriggling toe problem should be avoided here.
Your gaze wanders up, past the beyond billboard-sized swoosh, to the ankle. Judging by the smooth flesh (although you can still make out the uneven texture of the skin at your scale) peeking between the pink socks and the blue jeans, you're fairly sure that this is a woman. Unfortunately, you can't put a name to the foot.
Only one way to find out.
You could approach this giantess, hoping to have her aid you in the same way as you hoped George would. Or you could just use her calm space (her feet stay adamantly still) as a resting spot while you wait for George to calm down, so that you can go back there.
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