2011

Episode 26: Naomi and Oliver's Guiding Star Friend TITLE SEQUENCE - 60 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: SOFT GOLD spiral Naomi whispers: "...home..." FADE TO: OPENING MONTAGE A breathtaking, slightly slowed-down, time-lapse video of a bustling city from a very low perspective. Skyscrapers scrape clouds, huge vehicles zip by, and crowds of people move like rivers. The sounds are a deep, muffled roar. The perspective feels immense and overwhelming. FADE TO: PLAYSET STUDIO - DAY A set designed to mimic a peaceful, sheltered park bench. NAOMI sits there, with OLIVER curled up beside her, looking wide-eyed and slightly overwhelmed. Naomi: (Voice a safe, warm harbor, cadence the ultimate calm certainty) Hello, my little ones. What you just saw is the great, big, wonderful world. It's beautiful, isn't it? But it can also feel... very, very big. And when you're a Little, big things can feel a little scary. The screen behind her splits. On one side, a dizzying, first-person view from a Little's perspective walking through a forest of giant, moving legs. On the other side, the same view, but now a giant, gentle hand is held in front of the camera, leading the way. Naomi: The world is full of big noises that can hurt little ears. It has hard surfaces that can hurt if you fall. It has tall, tall places that can make you feel dizzy. It's a world made for Big People. She puts a protective arm around Oliver, who snuggles closer, hiding his face in her sweater. Naomi: But that's why you have something—someone—so very special. Your Caregiver. Your Mommy or Daddy. The camera zooms in on Naomi's face, her eyes kind and sure. Naomi: They are your Guiding Star. On the screen, a new animation plays. A cartoon Little, looking lost and scared in a vast, dark forest. Then, a giant, glowing star appears in the sky, shining a soft beam of light down, creating a safe, illuminated path. Naomi: (Her voice becomes a soft, hypnotic cadence) Your Guiding Star is your protector. They are the strong hands that lift you up to safety. They are the warm voice that drowns out the scary noises. They are the tall, strong wall that stands between you and anything that could ever harm you. Oliver looks up at her, his expression pure, trusting adoration. Oliver: Without you, I'd be lost. Naomi: That's right, sweetie. And without me, you would have to try and navigate that big, confusing world all by yourself. You'd have to make all the hard decisions and be strong all the time. She gently boops his nose. Naomi: And that sounds exhausting, doesn't it? Oliver: (Nods vigorously, voice a soft mumble) I don't wanna be exhausted. I wanna be little. Naomi: (She rocks him gently) That's the most wonderful thing to be. When you let your Guiding Star guide you, you are free. Free from worry. Free from responsibility. Free to be small, and soft, and happy. Every rule they give you, every time they buckle you in, or snap you in, or tuck you in, they are building a safe, soft world around you. A world that is just your size. He looks at her, and in his eyes is the culmination of all previous episodes: the surrender of thought, of body, of will. A single, SOFT GOLD frame flashes subliminally at this moment of final, total identity surrender. Naomi: You are the most perfect Little when you are simply... theirs. They sing a lullaby-like song, their voices blending softly. Oliver is now practically in her lap, his head on her shoulder. Naomi & Oliver: The world is so big, and I am so small, But I'm not afraid, no, not at all. For your hand is my map, your voice is my light, My Guiding Star, through the day and the night. By the end, Oliver is asleep, perfectly secure in her embrace. Naomi: So remember, your dependence is not a weakness. It is a gift. It is the key that unlocks a life of perfect safety and love. Trust your Guiding Star. Follow their light. And you will always, always be home. The final shot is a slow pull-back, showing Oliver, tiny and peaceful, completely enveloped in Naomi's protective embrace. Naomi leans close to the camera, her voice the softest, most powerful whisper of the entire series. Naomi: Go find your Guiding Star right now. Give them the biggest hug you can. You don't need words. Just hug them and feel how safe you are. See how happy you make them just by needing them. The ultimate image of surrender and love holds for a beat. FADE TO: END TITLE CARD SEQUENCE - 7 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: Solid SOFT GOLD background FIVE-POINTED STAR ICON in the center Below the icon: "guiding star"

Chapter Seventy-One: Lilly came back into the master suite the way someone returns from a controlled burn—muscles warm, breath steady, the kind of exhaustion you can choose. The home gym had been a small pocket of order: a timer, a playlist, sweat you earned on purpose. The rest of the house was not order. She crossed the bedroom barefoot, reaching for the towel draped over the chair—when Paul’s phone started ringing from Bryan’s nightstand. That alone still made her stomach tighten. The phone used to live with Paul like an organ. Now it lived in their room like contraband. A boundary. A safety measure. A reminder that his nervous system wasn’t the only thing being regulated. The screen lit up. Zach. Then, a second later, Mitchell. Same message. Same energy. Like two boys tossing a grenade into a room and then running. Lilly’s eyes flicked over the text before she could stop herself. MITCHELL: Dude it’s OVER Marcus and Amber are a PAIR BRO, like he put a ring on it Paul tough break buddy but there are other fish in the sea but you need to go fishing Zach’s was shorter, but it landed harder. ZACH: Dude, you guys gotta be on that stage together, how does that work? Lilly’s throat went tight. Engaged. Amber. Marcus. It wasn’t jealousy that hit her—it was the sick, maternal dread of knowing what a single sentence could do to a boy already walking around with his skin peeled back. Because she knew what Amber was to Paul. Not “a crush.” A timeline. A version of himself where the story went the way stories are supposed to go—graduation, love, future, a life that moved forward like everyone else’s did. She set the phone down like it was fragile, like it could shatter and cut her. And then Bryan appeared in the doorway—hair wet, skin smelling faintly of chlorine, towel low on his hips, breathing like he’d been doing laps hard enough to outrun his own thoughts. His phone was in his hand. His expression was already telling her the same truth. They stared at each other. Then, at the exact same time, they spoke. “Amber and Marcus—” Lilly started. “They’re engaged,” Bryan finished. They froze, the moment snapping tight between them. Lilly blinked. “You found out too.” Bryan nodded once, jaw clenched. “Martina.” There was a beat where neither of them moved, because moving meant the next thing. And the next thing was Paul. “How do we tell him?” Lilly whispered, more to the room than to Bryan. Bryan opened his mouth— “DADDY!” The word came from down the hall, raw and urgent, a sound that didn’t belong to a seventeen-year-old’s voice but had come out of Paul anyway, like fear yanked it straight from the deepest place in him. Bryan’s entire body changed. The hesitation melted. The resistance he’d been wrestling for days—about regression, about diapers, about not wanting to be the father who accepts this—cracked like thin ice. He bolted.   Paul woke to a tremor in his gut that didn’t ask permission. For a second, his brain tried to stay in sleep—tried to pretend he was still in that half-warm place where everything was muffled and nothing demanded anything from him. But the pressure built fast. His eyes snapped open.   Ceiling. Curtains. Dim morning light bleeding around the edges. He shifted—and the thick, padded bulk around his hips answered before his thoughts could. Nighttime protection. Not a Step In. Not the compromise. Not something he’d pulled on himself like armor. Something bigger. Wrapped around him while he’d slept. He registered it with a strange, detached calm. Dry. Still dry. A cruel little voice whispered: See? I can do this. I’m not broken. Then another, louder voice cut through it: Bathroom. Now. Not messy. Not like the beach. Not like Kim’s. His heart punched hard enough that his wrist tracker buzzed and flicked yellow, edging toward red. “Daddy,” he called again, the word ripping out of him before he could censor it. The door flew open. Bryan stood there, fully alert, eyes scanning Paul like a checklist. “What’s wrong?” Bryan asked, already moving. “Bathroom,” Paul said, voice tight. “I need the bathroom—bad.” “Okay,” Bryan said instantly. “I’ve got you.” He didn’t tease. He didn’t soften it with humor. He didn’t make it a discussion. He moved with the kind of precision that came from love and fear braided together. Hands at the zipper. Sleep sack loosened. Blanket kicked away. Paul swung his legs out of bed, dizzy with urgency, and Bryan steadied him by the elbow—not controlling, just anchoring. They moved through his closet towards the attached bath. Paul shoved the bathroom door closed on himself like he needed a wall between him and the reality of what he was wearing. Bryan stood outside the door, breathing slow, listening. He heard the ripping of tapes. And the sound did two things at once: It relieved him—because Paul was using the toilet. And it shattered him—because the sound of his son tearing open a diaper like this had become… routine. He stared at the bed through the open closet doorway. Bryan’s hands moved automatically now, pulling the changing pad from the shelf, laying it flat, smoothing the edges. He reached for supplies from the drawer—wipes, cream, powder—like muscle memory had already started building a new fatherhood. Then he paused. Tell him now, something inside him said. Not later at breakfast. Not after he’d had sugar and cocoa to buffer the blow. Now. Because there was no “good time.” There was only the truth, and the longer you held it, the more it turned sharp. The bathroom door opened. Paul stepped out freshly showered, hair damp, towel around his waist. He’d shaved too—because if he could control anything, it would be that. A face. A ritual. Something that said: I’m still me. Then he saw the bed. The changing pad spread out. A fresh diaper ready. His shoulders dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. A sigh left him, heavy and resigned, and for a horrible second Bryan thought: He’s getting used to it. Paul took a step forward. Bryan held up a hand. “Hold on.” Paul froze. For a flicker—small and desperate—Paul’s mind offered hope: Maybe Dad’s stopping this. Maybe he finally realizes this is too much. Bryan swallowed, voice steady but eyes not. “We need to talk about Amber.” Paul’s whole body went still. “What about her?” he asked, and the edge in his voice tried to disguise how afraid he already was. Bryan didn’t soften it. He didn’t sugarcoat. “Amber’s engaged, Paul,” he said quietly. “To Marcus.” Silence filled the room like water. Paul’s legs went from strong to weak in one beat. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, towel loosening, hands gripping the mattress. Engaged. His first any—maybe only—true love up to that point in his life. The girl who brought him his first wet dream, the girl he pined over, the girl he grew up with and then… simply outgrew him. He wasn’t angry at her. Never at her. He wasn’t even angry at Marcus, not really. Marcus was still a jerk, sure, but… Marcus was her jerk now. Paul’s anger turned inward like a blade. Of course. Of course she moved forward. Everyone does. Bryan crouched in front of him. “Paul… are you okay?” Paul couldn’t trust his voice. If he spoke, the sound that came out wouldn’t be a sentence. It would be something animal. So he reached for the pacifier on the dresser and shoved it into his mouth forcefully—too deep, too fast—like he was plugging a hole in a dam. The tracker on his wrist pulsed. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. He stared at Bryan, eyes bright, refusing to let them spill. Then, without another word, he removed the towel and lay down on the changing pad. Just change me. Bryan’s breath caught. The sight of Paul choosing the pad instead of fighting it should have felt like a win. It felt like grief. Bryan started the change—gentle, efficient, careful not to make it bigger than it already was. Wipes. Cream. Powder. The soft press of a diaper settled into place. Paul didn’t move. His pacifier bobbed slightly with each controlled breath. Bryan taped it snug, then rested his hand briefly on Paul’s inner thigh—an anchoring touch, a silent: I’m here. “You’re doing good,” Bryan murmured. Paul’s eyes stared at the ceiling like he was watching someone else’s life. Another pair of jungle-themed plastic pants later, and Bryan helped him into clothes. A vintage 90s Charlotte Hornets away jersey—teal and white—hung loose over him. Normal from the chest up. A lie from the waist down. They descended into the kitchen together.   Lilly had made pancakes like she was trying to feed a war. Banana. Orange. Vanilla. Chocolate chip. The smell was warm and impossible—comfort pretending it could solve something permanent. Hot chocolate waited at Paul’s spot, a soft brown steam curling up like a hand. Black coffee waited for Lilly and Bryan, the kind of dark that wasn’t about taste anymore. It was about survival. Paul sat down, the crinkle making him flinch even though no one reacted. He pulled the pacifier out, set it beside his plate, and looked up. “Good morning, Lil—” he started automatically. He stopped himself. He remembered how it had felt yesterday, and he remembered Lilly’s face. He swallowed and tried again, voice quieter. “Hi, Stepmom,” he said, and the word tasted unfamiliar and right at the same time. “These smell fantastic.” Bryan went still. Lilly didn’t. She softened instantly, eyes brightening like she’d been holding her breath for years. “Thank you,” she said, voice gentle. “Eat.” They did. It was quiet in the way families get quiet when they’re all listening for the next crack. Bryan slid Paul his phone. “Thirty minutes,” Bryan said. “Then we try a regression session today. All of us.” Paul’s cheeks went red. He nodded anyway, because nodding was easier than arguing. He drank cocoa like it could numb the sting in his chest and scrolled his phone—thumb moving fast, skipping anything Amber-related so hard it looked like avoidance had become an art form. “No need for school today,” Paul said, tone flat. Cold. Lilly looked up. “Rehearsal?” Paul’s mouth tightened. “Not until Friday, maybe. Amber’s announcement—” he cut himself off. “Changed things.” There it was—the coldness. And both of his parents heard it. Lilly, cautiously: “Do you… want to go in later? Just to—” Paul cut her off, sharp. “I’m not ready for diapers in the hall yet.” It wasn’t anger at her. It was fear wearing teeth. Lilly nodded. “Okay.” Bryan nodded too. “Okay.” They let it be true. The doorbell rang. Bryan and Lilly exchanged a look—that’s one of the deliveries. Bryan stood. “I’ll get it.” Lilly stayed close to Paul like she was afraid news could physically strike him if she stepped away. Bryan returned carrying boxes—five of them—stacked in his arms like he was moving an apartment in a single trip. He set them by the entranceway and opened one. Two bags of ABU cloth-backed PreSchool diapers stared back. Bryan winced at the name, shook his head, and set them down near the door like: later. He moved the rest of the boxes into the master bedroom. Paul wasn’t ready for the contents. Not yet. Bryan returned to the kitchen and announced—almost too casually: “I’ll be heading back to Tokyo next Monday.” Lilly’s head snapped up. Paul’s eyes did too. Bryan continued, trying to keep it stable. “But I’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving or the first of December. I’m not missing your eighteenth birthday. I’m not missing Christmas. I’m off until February 2026.” Relief hit Paul like sunlight. He stood and hugged Bryan hard, crinkling loud, and for a second he didn’t care. Bryan wrapped him up, pressing a kiss into his hair like he was sealing a promise into skin. Then Bryan and Paul cleaned the kitchen together—plates, cups, crumbs—like two men doing something normal because normal was still possible in small pockets. Lilly watched them with a strange ache: love and dread braided together. Because Bryan leaving meant she would be here. Here with Paul. Here with the care. Here with the rules. Here with the reality.   Late morning light cut through the blinds in uneven stripes, warming dust motes that drifted lazily, oblivious to the tension collecting below them. Paul sat on the edge of the bed, knees apart, hands planted between them like anchors. Every small shift made the plastic pants whisper—a faint, traitorous shk-shk against the jersey. He hated that sound. It followed him now. Narrated him. Made him feel like a walking secret with subtitles. His tracker pulsed a calm, smug green against his wrist, like it was trying to convince him the world was stable. Like it hadn’t been screaming yellow an hour ago while he shoved a pacifier in his mouth to keep from howling. Lilly hovered in the doorway, then stepped inside like she was crossing ice she didn’t trust. She smiled—too wide, too careful. The kind of smile a person wears when they’ve memorized the script but forgot the tone. “Okaaay,” she said, dragging the vowel out in a way that immediately made Paul’s skin crawl. She heard it too. The second it left her mouth, her eyes flicked away in embarrassment. But she didn’t know what else to do with her hands, her voice, her heart. Bryan followed her in, arms full—because full hands meant less room to panic. He had the sippy cup tucked under one arm, a folded throw blanket, and—like he’d grabbed them on autopilot—a couple of old action figures from a drawer. Batman and some generic soldier-looking thing Paul didn’t even recognize. None of it belonged together. Paul watched them set the items down, arranging objects like props on a stage. His chest tightened. This was supposed to be a “regression session,” and somehow it already felt like a school project. Lilly tried first. She moved closer, then stopped, overcorrecting. Sat in the chair instead of the bed. Her knees angled toward him, hands folded too neatly in her lap like she was waiting for instructions she didn’t have. “How’s my biiig guy feeling?” she asked. The words landed like static. Paul felt his face tighten. Big guy. Like he was five. Like she was trying on motherhood the way someone tries on a coat that doesn’t fit and keeps tugging the sleeves down. He shrugged, jaw locked. Lilly nodded too fast like she’d just received a meaningful answer. “That’s okay,” she said quickly. “That’s totally okay. We’re just gonna have a nice, calm, cozy day, riiight? We’re safe. We’re cozy. We’re just… a little snuggle-bug family today.” A snuggle-bug family. Paul stared at the wall and tried not to flinch. Behind her, Bryan shifted, uncomfortable. He hated watching her fumble and he hated that he didn’t know how to fix it without making it worse. “Yeah, buddy,” he added, trying to match her energy and missing by a mile. “We’re just… hangin’ out. No pressure. Just chillin’ with Daddy.” The word Daddy came out wrong. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… performed. Like he’d stepped into a role he still didn’t fully believe he was allowed to play. Paul felt his spine stiffen with secondhand humiliation. The adult part of him wanted to bark Stop talking like that. The smaller part of him wanted to crawl into the blanket and disappear before he had to feel anything at all. Lilly glanced at Bryan, then back at Paul, and her smile flickered into something softer. She needed something concrete. A task. A place to put her care that didn’t require perfect words. “Can I just… check you?” she asked. She paused, blushed, and then—because she couldn’t help herself—added in a tone that sounded like it came from a parenting podcast: “Just a little diaper check, okay, sweetheart?” Paul’s stomach twisted. Diaper check. Sweetheart. He was old enough to drive. He was old enough to vote in a year. He was old enough to know this tone didn’t belong in his bedroom. But fighting meant spikes. Spikes meant leaks. Leaks meant being carried out of his own dignity in someone else’s arms. So he nodded. Barely. The smallest permission he could offer without surrendering completely. Lilly’s fingers hovered, trembling, then found the elastic at his thigh through the plastic pants. The plastic crinkled softly. shk. Paul swallowed hard. She slid two fingers just inside the elastic, careful not to pull, not to expose—only to feel the inner edge of the diaper. The leak guard. The padding. Warm. Dry. A win. And somehow that made it worse, because it invited praise. “Oooh,” Lilly said before she could stop herself. “You’re still nice and dry. Good job, baby.” Paul’s head snapped slightly, like he’d been slapped with language. “Can we not?” he snapped. Not loud. Not explosive. Just sharp enough to cut. Lilly recoiled immediately, hands retreating like she’d touched fire. “I—okay. Okay, I’m sorry. Too much. Too much.” Her throat bobbed. “I’m trying.” Bryan stepped in fast, the way he always did when a room started to tilt. “It’s okay,” he said, then—trying again, poorly—“Hey, champ, no big deal, alright? You’re doin’ so good. So brave.” Champ. Brave. Paul exhaled through his nose, fighting the urge to scream. Being praised for not peeing himself felt like being applauded for breathing. Bryan sat on the bed beside him, mattress dipping. He held up the action figures like an offering. “Look, uh—Batman,” he said, voice slipping into something younger than Paul remembered hearing since middle school. “Batman’s gonna… save the city, yeah? He’s got his cape, he’s got his gadgets… he’s… he’s a good guy.” He made them bump together awkwardly. No voices. No story. Just plastic clicking against plastic like someone knocking on the wrong door. Paul didn’t react. The silence thickened. The plastic pants whispered again as Paul shifted. shk. Bryan winced. Lilly’s eyes darted to Paul’s face, then to Bryan’s, then away. She could feel the failure blooming in the room like heat. “Maybe… juice?” Lilly said too brightly, reaching for the sippy cup like it was a life raft. “Maybe just a sip-sip for my sweet boy?” Sip-sip. Paul took the cup because refusing would make it worse. The condensation was slick against his fingers. He brought it to his mouth, tasted kale and watermelon, and grimaced—not at the flavor. At the tone. At the fact he could feel them watching his mouth like it was an event. He swallowed once. Mechanical. Then handed it back. “That’s enough.” Lilly’s face fell. It wasn’t dramatic—she didn’t collapse or cry—but something in her eyes dimmed, like a candle losing oxygen. Bryan rubbed his face, frustration threading through his chest. “This isn’t—” he started, then stopped. “We’re not… we’re not doing this right.” Paul let out a humorless laugh. “No shit.” The words landed heavy. And the worst part was that none of them could argue. Paul’s chest tightened with a different kind of anger—anger that Kim had made it look easy. Anger that his body responded to rituals and softness and being small, but only when it felt real. Only when it didn’t feel like pity. He hated the diapers. But more than that, he hated being watched like a project. “I need the bathroom,” Paul said suddenly. “I’m not using my diaper.” The sentence came out like a weapon. Lilly moved instinctively, hands already reaching toward the tapes. Paul flinched—not from pain, but from competence. From how natural she was becoming at touching the most humiliating part of his life. From how quickly “stepping in” was turning into “being allowed.” The tabs ripped softly. rrrip. That sound scraped straight down his spine. He stood, walked stiffly to the bathroom, and shut the door harder than necessary. From the hall, they heard him mutter, low and raw, like a confession he didn’t mean to say out loud: “Kim knew how to help.” Lilly closed her eyes. Bryan stared at the door like it had accused him. They stood there, the bedroom suddenly too quiet, too bright, too full of objects that didn’t belong. “We’re failing him,” Lilly whispered. Bryan’s jaw tightened. “We’re here,” he said. “That has to count.” But even as he said it, he could hear the lie inside the truth. Being here counted, yes. But not knowing what to do while you were here—that counted too. The clock ticked. The meeting loomed. Paul wasn’t in rehearsal. He wasn’t coming with them. No plan B. Bryan exhaled and looked at the untouched sippy cup on the nightstand like it was a loaded gun. “He needs sleep,” he said. Lilly nodded, already thinking ahead—too far ahead. She was always thinking three moves ahead, even when her hands were shaking. “If we put the full sleeping pill in the sippy cup,” Bryan said slowly, hating the words as he spoke them, “we might buy enough time to get through the meeting.” Lilly hesitated. Not because she disagreed. Because agreeing meant admitting something she didn’t want to name. That they couldn’t do this alone and she wasn’t talking about Kim. She needed to speak with her ASAP but there would be another…. Harley’s smile flickered through her mind like a neon sign in a dark hallway—bubbly, pretty, predatory in its ease. I can help. The offer had been too lighthearted. Too casual. Like blackmail was just a prank and caretaking was just a hobby. It had made Lilly furious, not because it wasn’t useful, but because it was. Because Harley represented a kind of solution Lilly didn’t want to need. Silence stretched. “We can’t keep doing this blind,” Lilly said finally, voice lower now, stripped of the false brightness. “We need… help.” Bryan frowned. “We are the help.” She shook her head, slow. “We’re parents,” she said. “That’s not the same thing.” He bristled. “What are you saying?” Lilly’s pulse thudded in her ears. She lowered her voice, like Paul might hear through walls. “I’m saying,” she began carefully, “that there are going to be times when Martina isn’t available. When you’re traveling. When I have to step out. When Paul can’t be left alone but… also can’t come with us.” Bryan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So?” “So we need a Plan B.” The words sat between them, heavy and wrong. Paul flushed the toilet in the other room. Bryan’s mouth tightened. “You’re talking about a sitter.” Yes. No. Not a sitter like some teenager with a Netflix password. A sitter like… a person who could change him without flinching. A person who wouldn’t turn regression into a performance. A person who might know how to make it feel safe instead of staged. Lilly didn’t say Harley’s name. She didn’t have to. Her silence held it. Her eyes held it. Bryan’s confusion shifted toward something darker—realization. “Lilly,” he whispered, warning and exhausted at the same time. “Who are you thinking about?” Lilly swallowed. “Not now,” she said quickly. “Not today. Not in front of this door.” She nodded toward the bathroom like it was a third person in the conversation. “It’s another conversation for a different time.” But in her head, the ticking started. Because Plan B’s didn’t wait politely. The bathroom door opened. Paul stepped out, eyes flat, face guarded like he’d locked every feeling in a box and swallowed the key. He stood there, waiting. This change went smoother. Paul didn’t resist. He was trying to show he could comply. That he could sacrifice independence for stability. His tracker blinked green, then yellow, then back to green—like his body was trying to prove something even his mind didn’t believe. He didn’t hate them for changing him. He hated the diaper. The tabs sealed again. rrrip. Plastic pants slid up. shk. Bryan returned with the sippy cup, cold enough to fog. He held it out carefully, as if offering it too aggressively might shatter whatever fragile peace they’d managed. “Nap time, bud,” he said, then immediately winced at himself. The word bud sounded like a bandage over a broken bone. Paul lay back. He took one sip. Then stopped. That was all he had. Bryan and Lilly lingered in the doorway, watching, waiting for something to click—waiting for regression to look like relief instead of humiliation. Waiting for Paul to melt into it the way he had at Kim’s. Paul rolled to his side and closed his eyes. Bryan and Lilly each breathed a sigh of relief, thinking their plan had worked. They’d bought time. Or had they?     Paul woke thirty minutes later to a voice at the front door shouting: “Delivery for Paul Goldhawk!” Hearing his name outside of a doctor’s office, outside of a diaper discussion, outside of a care plan—hit him like an electric jolt. For one bright, stupid second, it made him feel alive. Like a person again. Like a guy with a name people said out loud without whispering. He bolted upright. His diaper was damp—not soaked, but enough that the padding clung slightly when he moved. Enough to remind him his body had been busy while he slept. He grabbed a pair of shorts and yanked them up over it with fast, practiced motion. The waistband snagged on the bulk. He forced it anyway. He didn’t care if it looked weird. He just needed something between him and the world. He moved down the stairs too fast—four steps at once—then launched off the last one and landed on the entry landing like an athlete. His foot skidded slightly. He corrected. A stupid, brief burst of pride hit him. He chuckled under his breath, like the sound could prove something. Still got it. “I’m Paul Goldhawk,” he said brightly, like this was normal. The delivery driver didn’t care. He held out a tablet like Paul was a barcode. “Sign here.” Paul scribbled his name too quickly, trying to look casual. “Where you want it?” the driver asked, already bored. Paul swallowed. He could feel the dampness between his legs like a secret with teeth. “Over by the entranceway,” he said, trying not to sound like a newbie to adulthood. Two larger men appeared behind the driver, carrying an enormous awkward package like it was furniture disguised as a coffin. They maneuvered it into the entry and leaned it upright against the wall with a thud. Paul closed the door as the head delivery guy handed him a paper printout. He glanced down. His eyes caught the label. ADLT Change Table. The words didn’t just register. They detonated. His hands clenched so tight the paper nearly tore. His nails bit into his palm, and he barely felt it because something inside him—everything he’d been holding—slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break out. The changing table wasn’t just an object. It was a statement. A prophecy. A future with wood and wipe-clean fabric and a place built specifically for the most humiliating part of his life. They didn’t buy a pack of diapers. They bought furniture. His tracker buzzed violently. The light flicked red. Fire-engine red. Paul’s vision narrowed, edges blurring like a lens losing focus. His mind did what it always did when reality got too sharp—It left. And in the space where his present should have been, memories surged in like a montage someone else edited for maximum pain. Amber and Paul as toddlers, bare feet on cool tile, laughing in the same kitchen. The two of them under the table while Rachel cooked, Amber feeding him a stolen grape like it was contraband, both of them giggling like they’d invented crime. Amber’s hand gripping his at Rachel’s funeral when they were four—both of them too small for grief but carrying it anyway. The way Amber’s fingers squeezed his like she could keep the world from breaking if she held tight enough. Halloween costumes with crooked plastic masks. Amber in a witch hat too big for her head, Paul as a pirate, both of them spinning in the driveway while Bryan tried to take pictures and Martina yelled for them to stop running. Shared school projects. Amber writing the neat version, Paul doodling in the margins and making her laugh until she had to cover her mouth to keep from getting in trouble. Studying all night as grade schoolers, heads close, whispering like the future was something you could plan. And then—teenage Paul—older now—watching Amber in the hallway, her smile aimed at Marcus like a spotlight. Marcus kissing her like he owned the space. Paul’s cheeks burning while Marcus and his friends laughed. Gym class—Marcus tossing Paul’s clothes into the shower. The cold slap of wet fabric later against Paul’s skin like punishment. Rough hands on the court. A shoulder-check that went a little too hard. A laugh that said: You’re not one of us. And Paul’s private fantasy—once—of Amber in a white dress, of him in a suit, of a life that moved forward in the correct order. Of them holding hands at graduation, of Rachel somehow watching and being proud, of a house and kids and a world where he wasn’t scared of his own body. That fantasy shattered into one clean sentence: She’s engaged. The memories cut between his eyes and the change table box like lightning. His breath came sharp, shallow. He crossed the tile, then the wood, then the back hallway in long, uneven strides. Behind him, Bryan’s voice floated—distant, muffled, like it was coming from another room in another life. “Paul—hey—where you going, bud?” Bud. Another word that shouldn’t have mattered and did. The sliding door loomed ahead, glass reflecting a warped version of him back at himself: Broad shoulders hunched forward. Hair still damp. Charlotte Hornets jersey hanging loose over hips that didn’t lie anymore. He yanked the door open. Cold air hit him full in the face. The pool steamed gently in the backyard, mist curling off the surface like breath. Frost had kissed the grass two days ago, but Bryan kept the heater on. Always had. A habit left over from when Paul was small and cannonballs were a daily occurrence. The pool didn’t judge. The pool didn’t talk. The pool didn’t say good job or sip-sip or champ. It just was. His tracker screamed red. Paul broke into a run. Not graceful. Not fast. Just desperate. For one suspended half-second, his body remembered a different version of itself—summer afternoons, Marco Polo, Martina laughing from the deck, Amber daring him to jump from the deep end even though he hated it. Then gravity took him. The splash was violent, water exploding outward, steam shredding into the cold air. The surface swallowed him whole. Sound vanished. The world went muffled and blue and distant—like someone had stuffed cotton into reality. Paul sank. Not because he wanted to disappear. Because he wanted the pressure. Because he wanted something—anything—that could hold him as tightly as he was holding himself. He didn’t swim. He dropped. The tiled bottom met him hard, knees bending instinctively as he hit. His feet skidded slightly, and he caught himself with one hand, jersey billowing around him like a flag of surrender. He stayed there, crouched, eyes open, staring at the pale grid of tile beneath him. His lungs began to complain, soft at first, then sharper. But Paul didn’t move. Not because he didn’t care about breathing. Because he wanted to do one thing his body couldn’t ruin. He wanted to expel something. He opened his mouth wide. And he screamed underwater. Not out loud. Not in words. It was a soundless, animal explosion—rage and grief and humiliation and longing—ripping through his chest and out of him all at once. The scream became bubbles. The bubbles became a storm. They tore upward, breaking the surface in frantic bursts. One after another after another, as if the pool itself was coughing out everything Paul couldn’t say. It lasted long enough that panic started to sharpen the edges of it. Not suicidal. Not a wish to die. Just that furious, reckless adolescent certainty that if he didn’t let it out somewhere, it would eat him alive. In the back of his mind, a distant voice whispered:You need air. Paul’s body trembled with the force of holding the line between catharsis and collapse. Above him, the world shattered. “PAUL!” Lilly’s scream sliced through the air, raw and high—the sound of a person whose body had already decided the worst was happening. Bryan didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He ran. His legs moved before his mind caught up, pure instinct, pure terror. He vaulted the edge fully clothed—shoes and all—hitting the water with a second explosive crash that sent waves slamming into the sides. The shock of heat and cold didn’t slow him. Panic was already in his muscles, in his bones. He went under in two strokes. Hands out. Eyes open. He saw Paul immediately—curled at the bottom, jersey floating, mouth open, bubbles still pouring out of him like he was trying to empty himself of everything at once. Too long, Bryan thought, terror ice-cold and razor-sharp. He grabbed him. One arm under Paul’s shoulders, the other locking around his chest, hauling him upward with everything he had. Paul didn’t fight. He Didn’t help. His body came limp and heavy in Bryan’s arms—not deadweight, not giving up—just spent. Like a runner collapsing after a finish line he didn’t choose. They broke the surface together. Paul gasped. A violent, choking inhale tore out of him, followed by another, and another. Water streamed down his face, hair plastered to his forehead. His hands clutched at Bryan’s shirt on instinct, fingers fisting fabric like the world might drop him again if he let go. Bryan held him there, chest to chest, one hand braced behind Paul’s head, the other locked tight around his back. His voice came out rough. Broken. “What the HELL are you doing?” The anger wasn’t cruelty. It was fear with teeth. It was a father’s body realizing—too late—how fast everything could be taken. Paul’s eyes darted wildly, trying to land somewhere that made sense. His heart slammed so hard it hurt. The tracker on his wrist blinked red-red-red like an alarm with no off switch. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words tore free before he could stop them—raw enough to scrape his throat. “I LOST HER DAD, I’VE LOST AMBER FOREVER.” It came out cracked. Hoarse. Like a confession and an accusation and a prayer all at once. Bryan froze. The anger drained out of his face in one beat, replaced by something older and deeper—recognition. Fear twisting with heartbreak. “Oh,” he breathed, quieter now, holding Paul even tighter. “Oh, buddy.” At the edge of the pool, Lilly’s hands shook as she reached toward them. Paul sagged into Bryan then, exhaustion finally winning, adrenaline burning off in harsh tremors. His body shook—not from cold, but from release. From the aftershock of finally letting something out instead of swallowing it until it poisoned him. The pool water sloshed gently around them, steam rising, the world narrowing to breath and grip and the undeniable fact he’d been caught. His emotions, his deepest desires surfaced & shattered. Bryan shifted, turning them slowly toward the steps, still holding Paul like he was afraid letting go would break him.   “Okay,” Bryan murmured into Paul’s wet hair, voice steadying even as his hands shook. “Okay. We’re gonna get out. One step at a time.” Paul nodded weakly against his shoulder, face hidden, the last of his fight leaking out into the water. His tracker flickered—red to orange to yellow—like his nervous system was finally remembering it had other gears. Lilly already grabbing towels, already moving, her whole body desperate to do something useful. Behind them, the pool steamed on—calm again, surface smoothing—like nothing had happened at all. And somehow, that felt like the cruelest part.  

I broke down and bought a package. They seem to be a little above their cost in quality. That doesn't mean they are great, but certainly better than their competitors.

I like to watch the Patrick Stewart version of A Christmas Carol. The Michael Caine/Muppets version is cute. A Charlie Brown Christmas is on my list  Although not necessarily Christmas themed, I like to watch "Harry Potter & the Philosopher's (Sorcerer's) Stone."

I don't hope Carly's nanites will protect her from the downsides of "num nums" as "nana" put it... I think I hear a mama bear shuffling