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Monopoly 

These last two chapters have been great.  Paul seems to have a promising friend that he can't wait to see and a budding relationship with Savvy.  It was great that Savvy needed to bring up their relationship and set boundaries but I wish they had more alone time to talk about it.  I have to go back and read what all this "daycare" thing is about.     Also can't wait what Declan has in the envelope that he delivered to Paul.  And one last point, Amber is both jealous and rethinking her plans with Marcus.  

Clue

Chapter 8: The Correction Ryan woke to the sound of his own name, spoken the way you speak to something that has made a mess on the floor. "Ryan." He came up out of sleep in pieces — the ceiling first, then the gray light through the blinds, then the smell, which reached him before the understanding did. Ammonia, warm cotton, something older underneath. He was lying in it. He had been lying in it for a while. Kimberly stood at the side of the bed with her arms crossed, still in her sleep shirt, her hair loose and pushed back off her face. She wasn't shouting. That was worse. She was looking at the sheet with the flat, patient expression of a woman reading a bill she had already decided to pay. "Get up," she said. "Slowly. Don't drag it." He sat up and the sheet came with him, peeling off his hip with a wet sound. The GoodNite had failed. Not at the front — the padding there was heavy and yellow and sagging low between his legs, swollen to twice its size — but at the leg guard, where the elastic had given up somewhere in the night and let everything run sideways. His pajama pants were soaked down the back of one thigh. The mattress protector was dark in a long oval under his hip. The fitted sheet was soaked through in a shape that was almost a person. "Kimberly—" "Don't." She held up one hand. "There's no explanation. Just go get in the shower." He swung his legs off the bed, and the ruined GoodNite squelched and shifted, half off him now, hanging from one hip like a shed skin. He caught it, held it against himself, and stood there in front of his wife with his small soft cock shriveled and exposed above a sagging wet diaper, and she did not look at him. She was already stripping the bed, yanking the corner of the sheet free with a snap. "I'll clean it up. I'll do the wash, I'll—" "Ryan." She didn't turn around. "Shower. Now. You smell like a nursery." He went. He wadded the GoodNite into the trash bag she kept on the nightstand, beside the wipes, and carried it with him, and the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and a moment later the water started running. --- Kimberly stood in the bedroom with the wet sheet in her hands and listened to it. She had been awake since four. She had typed it out in the dark with her thumbs and sent it, and he had answered inside a minute — *put a towel under him and go back to sleep, I'll be there at eight* — and she had done exactly that, in the dark, like a woman taking instructions from a doctor. She stripped the bed. Fitted sheet, flat sheet, the protector — the protector had held, which meant the mattress was still clean, which meant one thing in this house was still salvageable. She bundled it all into her arms and carried it down the stairs. She meant to put it in the machine. She didn't. The doorbell rang at seven fifty-two, and she went to the door with her arms full. Darnell was on the porch with coffee and his bag. He looked at the bundle. His eyebrows came up. He didn't ask. "Bad one?" "The worst. Both layers." "The protector?" "Held." "Good." He stepped in and set the bag down and held out his hands. "Give me those." She gave him the sheets. He held them against his own chest without a flicker and carried them to the basement door, and she stood with her arms empty and something in her throat going tight. "Where's he?" "Shower." "Good." He came back and closed the front door. "Sit down." She sat. He crouched in front of her so his face was level with hers, and she thought about how strange it was that this wasn't strange. "Two weeks," she said. "Two weeks of texting you things at two in the morning and now you're holding his sheets and it doesn't feel strange." "It's not strange." "You want to say it in daylight?" he said. "You can." "You already know." "I know what you told me." She looked at her hands. Then she said it anyway, because he was right — daylight was different. It started the week before last. The Wednesday. Once, then the next morning, then every morning. Nine nights. Then the GoodNites, the biggest thing they make, and she'd stood in the pharmacy on Delaney doing the math on a ten-year-old's waist and told herself it was medical. Then they'd held for a week and she'd started to relax. Then last night they hadn't. And the rest of it. She'd said that at one in the morning with wine in her hand — that he couldn't satisfy her, that it was over before it started, that she lay there and told him it was alright and it hadn't been alright for years. That the thing he'd got was— "I've seen it," Darnell said. "His first week. Fourth floor. I saw enough." "Did he tell you?" "He doesn't tell anybody anything." She put her hand over her mouth. Darnell didn't fill the silence. "He's not going to get better," he said. "This is the rest of your life. Say it." "I know." "Say it." "I know," she said, and her voice cracked. "Then we stop pretending." He stood up. "Tape-ups. The thick ones. Not pull-ups, they're the same garbage with a different name." "I know what I need. I've stood in that aisle three times and put them back." "Why?" "Because buying them makes it real." "It's already real. It's been real for nine nights." He picked up his bag. "So go buy them. Come home. Put one on him. And stop calling him your husband." She sat very still. "There's a pharmacy on Delaney." "Get the thick ones." She laughed — cracked and wet and undignified, and she had to put her hand over her mouth. "Don't apologize for being tired," he said, and stepped closer, and put his hand on her waist. She stepped in. He started to bend his head and she stopped him flat-handed on his chest. "Not yet. I have to go buy diapers for my husband. Give me today." "Alright." "Be here when I get back." "I'm not going anywhere." She went upstairs and pulled on a tank top and yoga pants and dragged her hair back into its ponytail, and she came down with her keys and her bag, and at the door she stopped. "He gets a look on his face when he's about to make a speech. Like he's steeling himself. Don't let him talk you into anything." "I know." She left. --- Ryan came downstairs at eight forty and found Darnell alone in his kitchen. He had let himself in. Of course he had. He had his canvas bag open on the plywood and his jacket off and his sleeves rolled, and he was crouched with his back to the doorway, running the tape measure along the base of the half-hung cabinets, and the sight of him — the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulled tight across the back, the easy competence of his hands — landed in Ryan's chest like a swallowed stone. "Morning, boss," Darnell said without turning around. Ryan stood in the doorway. "Where's Kimberly?" "Ran out. Said she'd be back." "How did you get in." "Your wife let me in." He turned, and his eyes came up and went over Ryan slowly — the wet hair, the face, the shoes — and then down and back up, and he didn't say anything about any of it, which was somehow worse. "You want to get the other end of that quartz?" He jerked his chin at the garage door. "Been leaning on the wall out there a week. Started to think it was furniture." Ryan's face burned. He looked at the floor. --- The quartz was heavier than it looked and Ryan was worse at carrying it than he expected. They got it in through the garage door with Darnell walking backward and Ryan shuffling and sweating, his grip failing twice, the edge of the slab biting into his fingers. Darnell didn't comment. He just took more of the weight, effortlessly, the way an adult takes the heavy end of something from a child, and Ryan felt his face burn and said nothing. They worked. Darnell set the slab and shimmed it and tapped it level and talked, occasionally, in his low patient voice, about the difference between a countertop that looked flat and a countertop that was flat, and Ryan handed him tools and held the level and watched. Kimberly came home at twenty past nine. Ryan heard the front door, and then her footsteps coming toward the kitchen, and he looked up — and she was carrying a white pharmacy bag, small and plain, held against her hip. She didn't stop. She walked straight past the kitchen doorway and up the stairs, and Ryan watched her go with his stomach slowly tightening, and he did not know what was in the bag, and he did not ask. She was up there several minutes. When she came down she had her hair re-tied, tighter now, and she came into the kitchen and didn't go to the far side of the plywood. She came around it, to Darnell's side, and stood right against him — not beside him but against his arm, her hip to his hip, close enough that she had to be there on purpose. "Get what you needed?" Darnell said, not looking up. "Mm." "How's it going," she said. "Slow." "He's not holding that level right." Ryan looked down at the level in his hands. He was holding it right. He was almost certain he was holding it right. "Come here," Darnell said to her, and he took the level out of Ryan's hands and put it in hers and closed her fingers around it. "Hold it like that. Don't move." She held it. Darnell tapped the slab, checked the bubble, and nodded, and Ryan stood two feet away with nothing in his hands at all. "How much longer on this," she said. "Counter's today. Floor next." "Then it's finished." "Then it's finished." "Two weeks," she said. "Two weeks if it's me." She laughed, and her shoulder moved against his arm when she did. Darnell took the level back from her — and then he didn't step away. He set the level down and turned, and he put his hand on the back of her neck, under the ponytail, and drew his thumb up once along the short hair at her nape. Kimberly's eyes came half shut. "You've got a mark," he said. "Where?" "Back of your neck. From the sun." "From the school field." Her voice had gone quiet. "Sports day." "Mm." He kept his hand there. "Put something on it." "I will." "Not sunscreen. Aloe." "Alright." She still hadn't moved away. Neither had he. They were standing in the corner of the plywood with her hip against his and his hand on the back of her neck, and Ryan was four feet away and could see the exact moment she gave in and leaned. Her forehead came to his collarbone. Darnell's other hand came down and settled on her hip, and stayed. "The two of you," he said, tipping his head at Ryan without looking at him. "You've got soft hands too, you know that?" "I've been told," Kimberly said into his shirt. "His are worse." "He's never been good with them." "He's got other qualities." "Name one." Darnell looked down at her. "He's gentle." "He's very gentle," she said, and Ryan could not tell whether it was praise. She lifted her head, and then her hand came up and flattened on his chest, and Darnell's hand slid round to the small of her back, and she stepped in the last few inches and tilted her face up. They got close. Very close. Ryan could see her chin come up and Darnell's head come down and the space between their mouths close to nothing at all. And then Darnell stopped, an inch away, and looked at her. "You said not yet," he said. "I did." "You going to make me wait all day?" "Maybe." Her voice was unsteady. "You've got a counter to do." Darnell huffed a laugh and straightened up. He didn't let go of her back right away. He let it drag out, and she stayed against him, and then he reached past her and picked up the level and handed it to Ryan. "Bubble's in the middle," he said. "Hold it there." Ryan took it. He had been holding it in the middle. He was almost certain he had been holding it in the middle. --- He lasted another six minutes. "Darnell," he said. "Give me a hand outside. With the plywood. There's a sheet of it behind the garage." Darnell looked at him a moment. Then he said, "Sure, boss," and followed him out. --- The backyard was cool and gray and the grass was still wet with dew. Ryan walked them out past the corner of the house, out of sight of the kitchen window, and stopped and turned around with his heart going like a trapped bird. "I saw you," he said. Darnell waited. "In there. With your hand on her neck, standing up against her—" Ryan's voice cracked and he pushed through it. "And she was going to let you kiss her. I saw her face. She was going to let you." "Alright," Darnell said. "Alright? That's it? Alright?" Ryan's hands had gone cold. "So it stops today. You don't come back here. You don't touch her again. I'm still your supervisor, and if I have to go to Mark about this—" "Go to Mark," Darnell said. Ryan stopped. "Go to Mark," Darnell said again, reasonably, as though he were suggesting a restaurant. "Tell him the analyst you brought in is standing in your kitchen with his hand up your wife's neck. Tell him you can't hang a cabinet. Tell him what happened in the fourth-floor bathroom." He tilted his head. "You want me to go with you? I'll stand there while you say it." Ryan's breathing was uneven. "What happened in the fourth-floor bathroom has nothing to do with this." "It's got everything to do with it. She's been texting me about it since the week I started." Darnell said it without any particular weight, the way a man mentions the weather. "Two weeks, late at night, mostly. You've been asleep beside her the whole time." Ryan stared at him. "She's been texting you." "Every night." "Every—" Ryan's voice came out thin. "She told me it was a friend from work." "I am a friend from work." "She *lied* to me." "She did," Darnell agreed. "She does. Every time you ask." Ryan's hands had curled into fists without his deciding to. He could hear his own blood. He'd had a whole speech in his head when he walked out here — he'd had it rehearsed since the kitchen — and now he couldn't find a single line of it. It had all fallen out of him somewhere between the counter and the grass. "Say something," he said. "I did." "Say something *else*." "What else is there?" Darnell said. "You already know. You've known since the sink." Ryan swung at him. It was a bad punch. The punch of a man who had never hit anyone in his life and had only ever seen it done on television — a wide, telegraphed roundhouse that started somewhere out by his hip and took so long to arrive that Darnell had time to watch it come. He didn't dodge. He let it land on his shoulder, and it landed like a child's, with a soft thud and no weight behind it at all, and Ryan felt his own wrist bend wrong and his own face flood with the shame of it. Then Darnell hit him. One shot, to the gut, below the ribs, and it was not angry. No wind-up, no follow-through, no heat in it. The same motion as driving a nail, or closing a door. Ryan's breath left him in a single torn sound and his knees went and the grass came up hard against them and he was on all fours in the wet yard with his forehead almost touching the ground and nothing in the world but the pain and the ringing white noise of it. And then he lost control of himself. He felt it happen. That was the worst part — he felt it happen, the way he felt everything, with a terrible clarity. The dull morning fullness had been there since he woke, and he had ignored it, and he had not gone to the bathroom because he'd been hiding in the shower and then too busy being angry, and now his body simply let go without asking. A hot gush spreading down the front of his jeans, soaking into the denim, running down his thighs, and the sound of it pattering on the grass beneath him, and he couldn't stop it, and it went on a long time. He knelt there in the wet grass with his own piss running through his fingers, and above him Darnell stood with his arms loose at his sides, watching. Not laughing. Not gloating. Watching, the way you watch a thing that has finally done what it was always going to do. "There it is," Darnell said quietly. Ryan made a sound. It wasn't a word. "Come on. Get up." "I can't—" "You can." Darnell crouched down in front of him, forearms on his knees, and his voice was almost gentle, almost kind, and that was the worst thing yet. "Listen. Here's where we are, and I'm only saying it once. You can walk out that gate right now and not come back. Nobody's going to chase you. No calls, no lawyers. You go, and you're a man who left, and that's the last thing anybody ever says about you." He paused. "Or you come back inside and we do this properly. All of it. Starting today, no more pretending. Those are the options. There isn't a third one." Ryan stared at the grass. His jeans were dark and heavy and cold against his legs. "I don't—" he said. "I don't want—" "I know you don't." Darnell stood up. "That's not what I asked." --- He picked Ryan up off the ground the way you pick up a child. One arm under the backs of his knees, one across his back, and Ryan's whole weight came off the grass with no more effort than lifting a coat off a chair. Ryan made a small, humiliated noise and grabbed at his shirt, and Darnell carried him around the corner of the house, up the back steps, in through the sliding door, with Ryan's wet jeans soaking through both of them and his face buried in the man's shoulder because he could not look. Kimberly was at the kitchen table. She stood up fast when they came in, hand going to her mouth, and Ryan waited for the shock, the outrage, the *what did you do to him* — She looked at Ryan's face. Then down at his soaked jeans, at the dark stain running to his knees. Then at Darnell. "What happened?" she said. "He tried," Darnell said. Kimberly's mouth tightened. She didn't ask anything else. She didn't demand an explanation or run for a phone or put herself between them. She looked at Ryan's ruined trousers for a long moment, and Ryan saw her decide. "Up," she said. "On the counter." "The counter—" "Up." She was already moving, taking the wipes out of the drawer, and Darnell lifted him without being asked, both hands under his arms, and set him on the plywood like a child put up on a kitchen worktop to be dealt with. Ryan's feet didn't reach the floor. His heels knocked against the cabinet doors. "Lie back," Kimberly said. "Kimberly—" "Lie back, Ryan." She took his shoulder and pushed, and he went down flat on the plywood, and the ceiling of his own kitchen swung into view above him, and the cold counter was hard under his back through his shirt. She unbuckled his belt. He got his hands down to stop her and she said, "Leave them," and he left them, and she pulled the belt out of the loops and dropped it on the floor with a clatter. "Lift." He lifted his hips. The wet denim came away from his skin with a sucking sound, and she hauled it down his legs and dropped it in a heap on the tile. Then her fingers went into the waistband of his tighty whities and drew them down too, and the cold air of the kitchen came over him all at once. Darnell made a sound. Not a laugh. A short, flat note of surprise — the sound a man makes when a thing is smaller than he had prepared himself for. He was leaning against the counter with his arms folded and his eyes had gone straight down and stayed there. "Well," he said. "There it is." Ryan's hands twitched up off the plywood, toward himself. "Leave them," Kimberly said. Darnell tipped his head to one side, still looking. "You weren't exaggerating." "I told you I wasn't." "I thought you were being kind." "Nobody's ever accused me of that." Ryan lay there and felt the heat come up out of his chest and into his throat and his ears and the back of his neck. His cock had shriveled down to almost nothing in the cold, tucked small and pale against his thigh, and it was being looked at, at length, by two people who were discussing it in the third person. "Turn your hand over," Darnell said to Kimberly, not looking away. "Hold it up next to it." Kimberly put her hand beside his thigh, fingers straight, and Ryan understood what was being demonstrated before either of them said anything. His cock was shorter than her middle finger. "Look at that," Darnell said. "I know." "Your own hand." "I know." Kimberly's voice was flat and tired. "I've been looking at that for years." She picked up a wipe and cleaned him. Cold, thorough, impersonal and brisk — his thighs, the crease of his legs, and then she lifted his cock with the wipe and cleaned underneath it and let it drop back. "That's not a cock, boss," Darnell said. "That's a thumb." "What do you even do with that? You can't do anything with that." "It—" Ryan's throat was closing. "It works. It works fine, it—" "It's the size of my little finger." "Kimberly," Ryan said, turning his head, begging now. "Kimberly, tell him—" "He's right," Kimberly said. The words dropped into the kitchen and lay there. "It's not enough," she said, and her voice wasn't cruel, which made it so much worse, it was tired, it was the voice of a woman stating a fact she'd carried alone for years. "I'm sorry, Ryan. But it isn't. It never has been. It's not a cock, it's a—" She stopped. Shook her head. "You don't even last long enough to be a disappointment. You're done before I've started. And now you can't even stay dry at night. What am I supposed to do with you?" He had no answer. He had never had an answer. And then his cock moved. It happened without him. It happened *because* of it — the cold counter under his back and his bare ass on the plywood and his wife saying he wasn't enough and a bigger man standing over him telling him what he was — and his body, stupid and hopeful and traitorous as it had been at forty-two and at fifteen and at every miserable moment in between, began to stiffen. Darnell noticed immediately. "Well, look at that," he said, and laughed — one short, surprised, genuinely delighted laugh. "Look at that. He *likes* it." There was nowhere to hide it. Ryan's two inches stood up out of nothing at all, pink and taut and utterly ridiculous, and he reached for it — to cover it, to hide it, he didn't even know — and Darnell caught his wrist and pressed it back down against the counter without any apparent effort at all. "Don't," he said. "Let her see. She's seen it before." "Please—" "Look at that, Kim. Baby dick standing up like it's got something to say." Kimberly looked. Her face was complicated — something had gone out of it, some last reserve of patience, and what was left was cooler and steadier. She looked down at her husband's tiny erection and she didn't flinch and she didn't laugh. "Oh, Ryan," she said. That was all. *Oh, Ryan.* Two syllables and a lifetime of disappointment in them. And Ryan's eyes filled. He felt it happen and he couldn't stop it, the same way he couldn't stop anything, and the first tear went sideways into his hair, and then the second, and then his breath hitched in his chest and came out wrong, a wet, ragged, undignified sound, and once it started he couldn't get it back. "*Oh,*" Kimberly said, softer. "Oh, sweetheart." That made it worse. He turned his face toward the wall and his shoulders shook and he was crying — properly crying, on his back on his own kitchen counter, naked from the waist down, with his heels not reaching the floor and his ridiculous little hard-on standing up for nobody. Nobody touched him. That was the punishment. Nobody touched him and nobody stopped and Darnell stayed where he was with his forearms on his knees and let it go on. "Look at me," Darnell said. Ryan turned his head. His face was a mess and he could feel it. "Say it," Darnell said. "Say what you are." "I—" Ryan's voice came out in pieces. "I don't—" "You know." Ryan's chin went. He tried to hold it and it went anyway. "I'm a—" He swallowed. "I'm a baby cuck." "That's right." Darnell straightened up. "Now you can have your diaper." --- Kimberly went to the bag. She took one out and unfolded it, and Ryan saw the size of it and something in his chest went small and tight. It was thick and white and dense, as wide as her forearm, four broad tapes down each side, a waistband that looked like it could hold up a wall. Not a GoodNite. Nothing like a GoodNite. This was a *thing*, a serious thing, a thing with substance and heft. "Lift." He lifted his hips, still crying. She slid it under him and the padding came up against his skin, dry and thick and slightly rough, and it made a sound as it moved — a crisp, plastic, unmistakable sound — and Ryan shut his eyes. She pulled the front up between his legs. It was thick. That was the thing that undid him — the sheer *substance* of it, the padding pressing up against him, the plastic backing crinkling, the width of it forcing his thighs apart. It wasn't a garment you could hide. It was a statement. It made a shape out of him. And his stupid cock was still half hard and the padding closed over it and bent it. "Don't leave it like that," Darnell said. "It'll leak at the leg." "Which way?" "Down. It goes down." Kimberly pushed the front of the diaper back down and put two fingers on his cock and pressed it flat, down between his legs, and Ryan made a small wet sound. It didn't stay. It was still too stiff, and it slid, and she pressed again, harder, and this time she kept her fingers there. "Hold it," Darnell said. "It'll stay once it's taped." She held it down with one hand and taped with the other, awkwardly, one tape at a time, reaching across herself — front left, front right, then the sides — and the whole time his useless little erection was pinned flat under her fingers like something being held down in a drawer. She pressed the last tape down flat with the heel of her hand. "Good boy," she said, and smoothed the waistband. Ryan lay on the counter and cried, and the diaper crinkled every time he breathed, and there was no hiding any of it, and the two of them stood over him and let him. --- "Now," Darnell said. "Rules." Ryan lay still. He didn't sit up. He didn't think he was allowed to. "One." Darnell held up a finger. "You're in the guest room now. Tonight. You don't come into the master bedroom again. You don't come out of that room at all without one of us saying you can." Ryan nodded at the ceiling. "Say it." "Yes," Ryan said. His voice was thick and wet. "Yes." "Two." Kimberly this time, flat and businesslike, as though reading a class list. "You wear these all the time now. Not just at night. Day and night. I'll put one on you in the morning and check you before bed, and if you need changing before that, you tell me." "Yes." "Three," Darnell said. "No bathroom. Not without asking. And the answer's going to be no, so save your breath." Ryan's chest hitched. "You can't— I have to—" "That's what it's for." Darnell nodded at his waist. "That's what it's for, boss." "Four." Kimberly again. "You don't touch yourself. Ever. Not in that diaper, not out of it, not in the shower. You don't get to do that anymore." "That's mine," Darnell said, and the way he said it wasn't a joke. "You want to cum, you ask her, and she asks me. That's the chain now. You're at the bottom of it." Ryan lay on the plywood with his face wet and his hands at his sides and felt the fight go out of him. Not acceptance. He wasn't going to call it that. But the thing that had walked out into the yard with a speech in its mouth had gone somewhere and it hadn't come back. "Five," Darnell said. He put a hand on Ryan's head, not roughly, and turned his face up so Ryan had to look at him with his eyes still running. "You do what she says. You do what I say. You stop pretending you're anything but what you are." He smiled. "And you are what you are. Look at you. On your back on a kitchen counter, in a diaper, crying like a baby, because a bigger man told you the truth about your little dick." Ryan's face crumpled again and he didn't fight it this time. "Get up," Darnell said. "I'll carry you." "I can walk." "You can't." Darnell got an arm under him and lifted him off the counter, and Ryan's diapered ass landed in the crook of his arm and his bare legs dangled and he was carried out of the kitchen and up the stairs, past the master bedroom with its neatly made bed and Kimberly's yoga mat propped against the dresser, and into the small spare room at the end of the hall. The guest room was made up. It always was — Kimberly kept it ready for her sister, for the odd weekend guest, and the bed was neat beneath its duvet, ordinary cotton sheets, a folded throw across the foot. No plastic. Nothing to protect it. Darnell laid him down on top of the duvet. "Stay in here," he said. "Don't come out until one of us comes for you." The door closed. --- Ryan lay where he'd been put. His face was still wet. The diaper crinkled every time he breathed, and he could feel it against him, thick and dry and enormous, and his jeans were still downstairs in a heap and his tighty whities were somewhere on the kitchen tile and he had nothing on below the waist but the thing they had taped onto him. He heard them on the stairs. The low murmur of Darnell's voice and the answering rise of Kimberly's laugh, warm and easy and nothing like the woman who had said *oh, Ryan.* Then the master bedroom door closed, and after a while the sounds started — the creak of the bed frame, a rhythm, a gasp he could hear through the wall as clearly as if he were in the room. Ryan lay in the guest room in his diaper and listened to his wife being satisfied by another man, and his cock stirred uselessly against the padding, and he did not touch it, because he wasn't allowed to. Beneath him the sheets were ordinary cotton, soft and clean and unproven. No plastic under them, nothing between the diaper and the mattress but a hundred percent cotton and his own good behaviour. If it failed, it would go straight through. He turned his face into the pillow and waited for someone to come for him.

Tiny Tails tonight.