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Sorry, it took so long.  So much is going on, and so little time to have time to myself to write lately.  I have been working on this all day, so please enjoy the next chapter. Chapter 61 - The Outing  Avery stirred, not to the harsh, sterile beeping of the hospital, but to a silence so deep it felt like cotton wool stuffed in his ears. There were no sounds of the hospital monitor or the motion outside the hospital room, which he had gotten used to. The surface beneath him was soft and firm, bordered by a high wooden rail that cast slender shadows across the room from the fresh sunlight streaming through the curtains. He blinked, pushing past the final vestiges of sleep. It was just starting to get light outside, the hour suspended between night and dawn, marked only by the gentle light seeping in from a curtained window. He felt a foreign, familiar object lodged between his lips. His tongue nudged it—a silicone bulb, smooth and comforting. It was the green pacifier, and somehow he slept with it all night without taking it out. He remembered Darlene feeding him a bottle before bed and rocking in place as he fell asleep. He didn't remember ever taking the pacifier, yet it had remained lodged between his lips throughout the night. The pacifier felt odd in his mouth, a foreign silicone bulb against his tongue, but he couldn't deny the strange, anchoring comfort it seemed to provide amidst his mental confusion. As the early dawn light seeped through the curtains, he studied the plastic ring, now tacky with sleep, acknowledging the sharp contrast between his identity as a nineteen-year-old mathematician and the infantile regression of the crib and thick adult diaper he currently wore with his footed pjs. Gently, he used his good left hand to pluck the pacifier free. The plastic ring was still tacky with sleep and saliva. He held it in his palm, studying its shape in the dim light. It was childish, humiliating, and utterly effective. “I shouldn't be doing this.” The thought was sharp, laced with the self-disgust of a nineteen-year-old man who prided himself on logic and independence. This level of regression—the crib, the pacifier, the thick, comfortable childish adult diaper he wore—was a betrayal of the adult he was supposed to be. He was a genius in mathematics and genetics, not some emotionally crippled child. If Julian or Bryan could see him now, they would confirm everything John had ever tried to prove: that Avery Thompson was fundamentally broken, a pathetic case study, not a capable man.” I have to stop this. I need to be normal.” Avery thought. Yet, the anxiety that usually coiled tight in his stomach was strangely absent. It had been replaced by the heavy, protected feeling of the crib’s solid rails, a perimeter Darlene had built around him that no predator could breach. He remembered last night before bed, when Darlene had walked him in for a diaper change and gotten him ready for bed.  How she gently rubbed cream onto the persistent rash on his inner thighs and crotch. The embarrassment had been immediate, but Darlene’s face had been a mask of focused, non-judgmental care. She’d hummed a quiet tune as she worked, treating his adult diaper change with the casualness of washing dishes. “But I hate being helpless. I hate that she has to do this for me.” Avery continued to think while lying in the crib alone. Then, a warmer memory surfaced—a moment from late yesterday afternoon. Bath time. He had initially dreaded it, fearing the exposure, the necessity of her hands supporting his torso as he navigated the slick tub. But she had made it pleasant, filling the tub with bubble bath and using a lavender-scented wash that smelled like safety. She hadn't scrubbed him or made a fuss, but simply used a soft cloth to clean his uninjured arm and shoulders while supporting the metal brace for his hand on the side of the tub. She then gently washed his hair. He had leaned back, his head resting against the inflated childlike neck support she used, feeling the warm water surround him, and for the first time since the attack, his mind had gone completely quiet. He’d realized then that true safety wasn’t the absence of pain; it was being cared for without having to ask. “It’s just a crutch. I’m leaning too hard. This can’t become a habit or desire; it is temporary and for recovery only.” He told himself.  As he struggled with himself internally, he remembered that he had agreed to all this in the hospital before they left. He then remembered when she had read him a story before he fell asleep, a picture book she’d retrieved from the nearby bookshelf filled with books that Tilly, Ashley, and friends must have purchased or donated. Her voice, deep and soothing, had pulled him under the covers of sleep faster than any morphine drip. He felt the slight weight of the blue dragon, Rigby, tucked against his side. He didn't want to need these things. He needed to get up, shower by himself, go back to work, and prove he was whole. “But when I’m with Darlene, I feel whole. I feel loved.” He thought as he held his Red Dog and stuffed dragon looking out between the bars of the crib. “I feel accepted…” He paused in his head. He curled his unbraced left hand around the pacifier, the cool plastic a contrast to the lingering warmth in his chest. Darlene's love was a tender, undeniable fact forged in the fire of shared trauma. She had risked everything for him. She saw his shame—the diapers, the nightmares, the inability to do things for himself sometimes—and she didn’t flinch. Instead, she offered a hug, a gentle word, a soft lullaby. A small sigh escaped him. He was a man who fought to escape a life of foster care and violence, and now, here, in this strange, wooden crib, he was finally feeling the one thing he had always been denied: unconditional, protective love. The choice was terrifying: abandon the comfort and risk shattering his fragile peace, or sink deeper into the regression and risk never being able to climb out. He gently placed the pacifier on the mattress beside the blue dragon, then closed his eyes. The crib’s silence enveloped him. He realized that he didn’t just need this, but now wanted this, and that scared him more than anything.   As the fog of sleep cleared further, Avery became acutely aware of a heavy, uncomfortable sensation spreading from his waist to his thighs and to his crotch. The realization hit him with a cold jolt that bypassed his grogginess: he had wet himself during the night. Beneath the footed pjs, the thick padding of the diaper was swollen and sodden, clinging to his skin with a humid, cooling weight. A wave of visceral shame washed over him, making his face burn even in the solitude of the colorful nursery. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wish the sensation away, but the distinct, squelching crinkle of the plastic backing as he shifted his legs was an undeniable indictment of his condition. Here he was, a grown man with a brilliant mind, lying in a wooden crib and unable to control even his most basic biological functions. He reached out, his left hand finding the familiar, slightly rough fur of Red Dog and the silky wings of Rigby the dragon. He pulled them both close, burying his face into the stuffed animals as if they could shield him from the reality of his predicament. The contrast was agonizing—the intellectual man who could debug complex mathematical code and the helpless infant who required a changing table and a mother's care. He felt trapped, a prisoner of a body that had surrendered to trauma and a mind that was slowly being seduced by the very dependence he claimed to loathe. The security of the crib’s high rails, which only moments ago felt like a fortress, now felt like the bars of a cage where his dignity had been discarded alongside his autonomy. His thoughts drifted to Darlene, sleeping just down the hall. Part of him wanted to cry out, to call for her and be rid of the cold, wet discomfort immediately. He craved the warmth of her presence, the gentle way she would murmur "it's okay, sweetie" while she tended to him, and the effortless way she made the most humiliating tasks feel like simple acts of love. But a larger, more stubborn part of him recoiled at the thought. To call for her was to admit total defeat, to actively participate in the erasure of his adulthood. If he waited, he could at least pretend for a few more minutes that he wasn't completely reliant on her. He decided to wait for her inevitable morning check-in, curling into a ball and clutching his stuffed animals tighter. He reflected on how easily he was slipping into this role, how the fear of the world outside made the safety of his diaper and crib seem like a reasonable trade-off, even as the shame of that trade threatened to consume him. —----——————————————-—----——————————————-—----——————————————-—---- The persistent buzz of her phone on the nightstand pulled Darlene from a heavy, dreamless sleep at 7:30 AM. She reached out, her joints stiff from the previous day's emotional marathon, and squinted at the screen. A text from Laurisa, sent only minutes prior, made her breath hitch: "Christy is awake. It happened suddenly about an hour ago. Call me when you see this." A surge of adrenaline chased away the last remnants of slumber. Darlene threw back the duvet and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, her mind already racing with a thousand questions. She moved on autopilot, filling the coffee reservoir and clicking the machine to life. The rhythmic gurgle of the brew provided a domestic backdrop to the monumental news as she hit the speed dial for her sister. Laurisa picked up on the second ring. "I figured you'd be up," she said, her voice sounding raspy but energized. "The night nurse reported she started fluttering her eyes around 5:15. By the time the resident got there, she was trying to pull at her intubation tube. They've extubated her, Darlene. She’s breathing on her own." "Oh, thank God," Darlene whispered, leaning against the counter as the first scent of coffee filled the air. "Is she... is she herself? Does she know where she is?" "She’s very confused," Laurisa admitted, her clinical tone softening. "Her memory of the attack is fragmented at best, which is actually a mercy right now. She kept asking what time it was and if she was late for the presentation. But Darlene, the first name she managed to croak out, wasn't her mother’s or her father’s. It was Avery’s. She was scared for him.  She knew something bad was happening to him." Darlene felt a lump form in her throat. The bond between those two, forged in the quiet corners of an office and now in the trauma of a hospital, was deeper than she had realized. "He’s going to be so relieved, Laurisa. But he's so fragile and confused right now. When can he see her?" "That's the tricky part," Laurisa replied. "The neuro team wants to keep her stimulation low for the next twenty-four hours. No big groups. But they agreed that one familiar, calm face might help ground her for a visit. I think we should aim for tomorrow morning. It gives Avery today to process the news and for us to make sure he’s emotionally stable enough to handle seeing her in that state." Laurisa sighed as she continued, the sound loud against the phone's speaker. "I'm relieved we got the extubation done; that's a huge positive indicator. But we're monitoring her closely for post-traumatic agitation. The fragmented memory of the attack is a form of protective amnesia right now, but introducing high emotional stimuli—like a visit from Avery—could trigger an acute stress response or exacerbate the confusion. The goal is to stabilize her baseline neurology before taxing her emotional centers." "I understand the clinical reasoning," Darlene said, pulling the phone away to stir the coffee she hadn't yet poured. "But as I have been watching Avery slowly expect the regression. I know he's emotionally fixated on her. The minute I tell him she's awake, he'll insist on seeing her today, not tomorrow. He won’t handle the delay well, Laurisa. He’ll tantrum, or worse, he'll shut down completely." "You're right. He very well might," Laurisa agreed grimly. "That's why you need to hold the line. Explain to him that the neuro assessment is critical. Tell him that the specific injury to her temporal lobe—where her memory processing is focused—means that any sudden increase in intracranial pressure or severe emotional distress could risk secondary cerebral injury or a relapse into a catatonic state. Use the medical language. Make it non-negotiable. He respects logic, Darlene, even if he hates the result." "Risking secondary cerebral injury," Darlene repeated, nodding to herself as she absorbed the gravity of the words. "Got it. I'll frame it as a direct threat to her well-being, not just a preference. It's the only way he'll accept it." "Exactly. This is about saving Christy from a relapse, and frankly, saving Avery from himself right now. He already carries too much guilt over the initial assault. Seeing her distressed by his presence would shatter him. Delay is protection in this case." They talked for another ten minutes, navigating the delicate balance between Christy's joy and the ongoing intensive care Avery required.  Afterward, Darlene wrapped her arms around the hem of her silk pajamas, whispering against the hardwood floors as she adjusted her robe. The morning air was still, but her body felt a familiar, insistent pressure. She could feel the heavy fullness of her breasts, a physical throbbing that seemed to pulse in time with her quickened heartbeat. It was a sensation that always brought a bittersweet ache to her chest, a reminder of the daughter she had lost and the nurturing she now directed toward the broken young man sleeping upstairs. Darlene paced in the kitchen, feeling a strange mixture of lightheadedness and renewed purpose. She poured herself a mug of coffee but didn't drink it yet. Instead, she retreated to the privacy of the sun-drenched breakfast nook, clutching her manual breast pump. She sat down in the quiet, placing the steaming coffee mug on the table as a small luxury before the task at hand. Her movements were methodical, born of a six-month-old ritual that remained both a private, humiliating burden and a small victory of remembrance. She opened her robe slightly, the silk fabric of her pajamas sliding against her skin, and began to unbutton her top with practiced fingers. Each button revealed the heavy, lacy white maternity bra that struggled to contain the insistent, physical throbbing of her full mammary glands. She slowly unlatched the nursing bra, wining slightly as the cool morning air hit her sensitive, swollen skin. The physical pressure in her breasts had become a biological imperative, a constant reminder of the daughter she had lost and the maternal instincts that now, inexplicably, flowed toward the broken young man sleeping in the crib upstairs. She positioned the cold plastic cup of the manual breast pump against her areola, ensuring a tight seal before turning the machine on. As the pump's rhythmic suction began to drone in the quiet kitchen, Darlene watched the morning light dance across the floor tiles. With each mechanical pull, her milk released in warm rivulets, a tangible symbol of the nurturing she was pouring into Avery's recovery. This milk, originally meant for a life that wasn't to be, now served as a bridge between her grief and a new kind of family built from the wreckage of shared trauma. The physical release mirrored the emotional relief of the news about Christy, and for the first time in months, the stone of grief in her chest felt slightly lighter as she prepared to wake her "little boy" with the update. As she capped the bottles, redressed, and placed them in the fridge, she decided it was time. Darlene climbed the stairs with a lightness in her step she hadn't felt in weeks, the joyous news about Christy acting like a tonic for her weary spirit. She pushed open the nursery door, where the soft, rotating stars from the projector were still dancing across the ceiling. Avery was just beginning to stir in the depths of the massive white crib, his hand curled around the ear of his Red Dog. "Good morning, sleepyhead," Darlene whispered, leaning over the rail to stroke his cheek. Avery blinked up at her, the large green pacifier sitting between him and the crib as he offered a drowsy, confused smile. "I have the most wonderful news, Avery. Laurisa called—Christy is awake. She's breathing on her own, and she even asked for you." The effect was instantaneous. Avery’s eyes widened with a brilliant, lucid joy that cut through his morning grogginess. "She's awake?" he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Can we go? Can we go see her right now?" He began to scramble upward, on his knees and holding his hands on the rails of the crib, but the heavy, saturated weight of his overnight diaper anchored him to the mattress with a loud, squelching crinkle as his face blushed as he just remembered how he wet himself in his sleep. "Not just yet, honey," Darlene said firmly, placing a steadying hand on his chest. "You need to get clean and dressed first. Mama needs to take care of you." She lowered the crib rail and guided him to the changing table. Avery was vibrating with an intense, restless energy, his mind already miles away at the hospital. As Darlene unzipped his yellow elephant pajamas, the sharp, heavy scent of the soaked diaper filled the air. She slipped his legs out of the pajamas and up over his chest. Leaving him just in the diaper. She made quick work of the adhesive tabs, the plastic backing rasping as she slid the sodden mass out from under him. "Stay still, Avery," she urged, as he began to squirm and kick his legs in his haste. "I can't get you clean if you keep wiggling." "But she asked for me, Darlene!" Avery insisted, his voice rising in a pitch of childish excitement as he laid on the changing table.  "She might be scared. I have to show her I'm okay." He bucked his hips as she tried to apply the soothing cream, causing a small smear to land on the terry cloth cover. He tried to twist away from her hands, arching his back and gripping the edge of the changing pad with his good hand. “I’m fine, I don’t need cream! Just let me up, Darlene!” he pleaded, his voice cracking with the emotional strain. The movement made the large changing table wobble slightly. “I’m already clean enough! Please, she needs me to be there now!” "Avery Thompson, you need to settle down," Darlene scolded gently, her tone adopting that non-negotiable maternal authority. "The doctors said she needs to be quiet today. We can go tomorrow morning, but only if you behave and let me finish this." She dusted him with a generous cloud of baby powder, the fine white mist settling over his sensitive skin with a cooling, silk-like touch. She then massaged a thick layer of lavender-scented rash cream onto his inner thighs and up along his crotch, her fingers working the barrier into his skin with a focused, non-judgmental rhythm. Avery, however, was far from settled. He huffed, a pout forming on his lips as he watched her retrieve a fresh, thick adult baby diaper from the stack. It was an intimidating garment, featuring a playful outer print of colorful building blocks and a crinkly plastic backing that felt stiff and substantial in Darlene's hands. As she slid the massive diaper under his hips, Avery began to squirm again, his good left hand clutching the edge of the changing table. "Darlene, please! I'm fine now. I need to be at the hospital!" he insisted, his voice rising with a desperate, childish edge. Darlene ignored the protest, expertly folding the thick, absorbent wings of the diaper over his waist. The sheer bulk of the padding was immense, forcing his legs into a natural, bowed stance as she secured the tapes. Each of the four adhesive snaps closed with a loud, definitive "pop" that echoed through the nursery, punctuating his surrender.  Darlene then reached into the dresser drawer and retrieved a garment, sliding a soft cotton onesie with a playful print of little planes and helicopters, which slid over his head. Avery watched her with a mixture of dazed compliance and growing bewilderment. He found himself wondering just how many different sets of toddler-style infantile clothes everyone had managed to stockpile in this nursery as she methodically fastened the four metal buttons underneath his thickly padded diapered crotch. The garment was soft, its fabric clinging to his frame in a way that felt both secure and utterly restrictive. As Darlene tugged the hem down, Avery felt the distinct, bulky resistance of the fresh diaper she had just secured. The thick layers of absorbent padding created a wide, awkward gap between his thighs, making him feel even more disconnected from the adult man he had been only days ago. "Tomorrow?" Avery whispered, his excitement wilting into a desperate, needy frustration. The news of Christy being awake had been a lifeline, but the wait felt like an eternity. He grabbed at Darlene’s sleeves as she snapped the crotch of the onesie, the metallic clicks punctuating his anxiety. "That’s too long. Please, just for five minutes?" He squirmed again, nearly sliding off the table in his urgency, his movements marring the plastic-backed diaper crinkle loudly. Darlene caught him around the waist, pulling his heavy, diapered form close to her chest for a reassuring hug. The physical closeness was meant to ground him, but Avery found himself leaning into her maternal warmth with a surprising, instinctive hunger. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, his breathing ragged and tearful. The contrast between the brilliant researcher who handled data integrity and the boy currently begging for a hospital visit in a plane-patterned onesie was a jagged, painful realization that he lacked the strength to fight. "I know it’s hard, little one,” Darlene murmured into his hair, her voice a steady, rhythmic balm that vibrated against his cheek. She pulled back slightly, holding his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her serious gaze. “Avery, listen to me. This isn't about me or the rules. This is about protecting Christy from a secondary cerebral injury.” His eyes, wide and still tear-filled, locked onto hers. Darlene used the specific, clinical language Laurisa had advised, knowing his intellect would grasp the gravity of the risk. “Christy had multiple brain bleeds. The surgery relieved the pressure, but the insult to her temporal lobe—where her memory is processed—is severe. Any sudden increase in intracranial pressure, or severe emotional distress like the shock of a rapid, unplanned visit, could risk secondary cerebral injury or a relapse into a catatonic state. We have to stabilize her baseline neurology before we tax her emotional centers with a high-stimulus visit, even from you. Waiting today is the only way to guarantee she won't be harmed.”  Darelene knew if she appealed to his intellect, he would more than likely accept the notion of seeing her tomorrow. Avery went instantly still. The word 'harm' cut through his frustration; his own desire to see her was secondary to protecting Christy. The tears on his cheeks seemed to freeze. His protest died in his throat, replaced by a profound, agonizing understanding of the clinical necessity. He would never risk causing her a secondary cerebral injury. He sat up on the changing table and got down. Darlene caught him firmly around the waist, pulled him into her, wrapping her arms completely around his frame close to her chest for a reassuring, protective hug while she used one hand to gently pat his thickly padded butt.  “I know it’s hard, little one,” Darlene murmured into his hair, her voice a steady, rhythmic balm that vibrated against his cheek. “But we have to follow the neuro team's rules so Christy can rest and recover without too much stimulation. If you’re a good boy today—if you have your nap without a fuss and eat your breakfast—the time will go by much faster. I promise.” She pulled back just enough to look at his face, her thumb gently wiping a stray tear from his bruised cheek. Avery sniffled, his gaze dropping to the floor in reluctant submission. The promise of the visit was the only thing keeping the next wave of emotional storm at bay. Darlene took his hand and led him slowly down the stairs, her touch guiding him as he walked, feeling the heavy, familiar bulk of the diaper crinkling between his legs with every step. They passed the living room and the large wooden playpen Tilly had helped set up, entering the kitchen as Darlene talked to him softly about the day's plans. He saw the high chair positioned by the island and stopped short, his face flushing. "No," he said, his voice small but firm. "I’m not going in that, Darlene. I can sit at the regular table." "Avery, we talked about this," Darlene said, her voice calm as she reached for a bib. "The high chair helps you stay focused and safe while you eat. It is part of the deal." "But I just proved I’m rational!" Avery argued, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I agreed to wait until tomorrow to see Christy because of the medical risks. I processed the logic, I accepted the delay—I passed the test. Doesn't that prove I’m can be an adult? I deserve to be treated like one, at least for breakfast." Darlene stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The fact that you could understand the logic about Christy is wonderful, Avery, but logic isn't the same as emotional stability. Look at how much you're trembling right now just from the sight of a chair. The emotional turmoil of the past twenty-four hours—the nightmares, the accidents, the regression—it all proves that your mind is still in a very fragile, protective state. You aren't ready for adult autonomy yet because your brain is still trying to heal from a massive trauma." "It’s just a chair!" Avery’s voice rose, bordering on a tantrum. "I’m nineteen! I shouldn't be buckled into a tray like a toddler!" "This is part of the healing process, honey," Darlene refuted gently but with a non-negotiable edge. "Surrendering this control allows you to rest. If you keep fighting to be an adult before you’re ready, you’ll only shatter again. Now, please, be my good boy and let me help you up." Finally, Darlene laid down the law, her expression shifting from sympathetic to strictly maternal. She reminded him of the agreement they had made with Laurisa—that he was to learn to let her take care of him completely, as if he truly were her baby, to help his mind heal from the trauma. “This is how babies eat, Avery,” she said, her voice brooking no further debate. He pouted, his lower lip jutting out, as she hoisted him into the high chair and buckled the safety harness. He watched with a mixture of shame and helplessness as she pushed the heavy red tray until it locked into place with a definitive click. Satisfied he was secure, she turned toward the stove and began to cook a breakfast of warm, pureed fruits and oats. Avery leaned against the high chair's tall back, the red plastic tray a frustrating barrier across his lap. He felt trapped, childish, and, worst of all, undeniably safe. His gaze followed Darlene as she moved with domestic grace around the stainless steel appliances. He watched her pull open the refrigerator door, the interior light illuminating a row of white, capped plastic bottles—her breast milk. The sight was a jolt, a physical manifestation of his dependence that made his stomach clench. He kept perfectly silent, his earlier protest forgotten as he focused on processing this reality. Darlene selected one of the bottles, the plastic cool against her palm, and set it on the counter. She warmed it gently in a mug of hot water, then poured the contents into a clean, larger baby bottle designed for a fast flow, screwing a new nipple onto the top. She then retrieved a small, colorful bowl of warm, pureed oatmeal mixed with mashed warm fruit from the simmering pot on the stove. Returning to the high chair, she clipped a soft, vinyl bib—printed with smiling puppies d—around his neck. Avery lifted his good hand instinctively to pull it away, but Darlene’s hand was firm and gentle on his shoulder. "No fighting, sweetie. Not this morning," she said softly. The bottle was presented first, the warm, nipple-capped plastic nudging his lips. He turned his head away. "I can drink from a cup," he mumbled, ashamed of the warm liquid he knew was meant for an infant. "You're having a lot of big feelings right now, and drinking from a cup takes concentration that your mind needs to save for healing, and your suppose to be surrendering yourself to me," Darlene explained, her tone patient but non-negotiable. She rested the bottle against his cheek until he reluctantly opened his mouth. The first swallow was shocking—the taste was richer and sweeter than any milk he remembered. He closed his eyes, drawing a slow, heavy breath. He hated the action, yet the warmth of the milk spread through him, instantly soothing the raw ache in his chest. Darlene didn't push. She let him take a few more hesitant pulls from the bottle, her hand steady on the base, before switching to the bowl. She scooped up a small portion of the creamy yellow puree onto a soft plastic spoon. "Open wide for the airplane," she joked, gliding the spoon toward him. Avery frowned, refusing the childish game, but opened his mouth for the food. He swallowed the first spoonful easily, but the second time, he tried to rush the movement, his mouth closing too quickly, causing a small streak of banana-oatmeal to smear just below his chin. Darlene simply reached for a soft, damp cloth and carefully wiped the mess away, her touch meticulous and non-judgemental. "Slow down, little one," she instructed, her voice calm. "We have all day. No rushing." Avery resigned himself to the forced submission, leaning back slightly in the high chair, the warmth of the milk and the gentle routine slowly eroding his resistance as Darlene continued to feed him, spoonful by spoonful. Darlene continued to feed him spoonful after spoonful of the warm, creamy puree until the bowl was finally empty, and Avery felt a heavy, sleepy fullness settle in his stomach. He sat patiently as she wiped his chin and face with a warm, damp washcloth, his eyes drifting shut at the soothing sensation of her care. Once he was clean, she unbuckled the safety harness and lifted him out of the high chair with a gentle, practiced strength. She walked him slowly to the soft sofa in the living room, intent on finishing the feeding with his bottle. As she sat down and positioned him comfortably across her lap, Avery found he didn’t have the will to resist; the relief of being out of the restrictive high chair combined with the growing comfort he felt being cradled in Darlene’s arms made the oversized baby bottle seem like a natural, almost welcome conclusion to the meal. Darlene held him close, rocking him with a rhythmic, hypnotic swaying that seemed to sync with the steady beat of her heart. Avery allowed his head to rest against the soft silk of her shoulder, his eyes half-closed as the warmth of the bottle and the closeness of her embrace finally quelled the last of his morning anxiety. After a few minutes of quiet comfort, she stood and led him to the large wooden playpen. Avery felt a brief surge of the old, adult resistance, his hands clutching weakly at her robe as he silently begged to stay out, but as she lowered him gently onto the colorful, padded mat, the fight left him. He settled into the confined space, the high bars and mesh walls a physical perimeter that felt less like a cage and more like a sanctuary from the world’s demands. Darlene reached over to the television, turning on a channel featuring soft, brightly colored cartoons that filled the room with a gentle, repetitive melody. "Mama needs to clean up the kitchen, get dressed for the day, and take care of a few emails, little one," she told him, her voice a soothing balm as she stroked his hair one last time. "You be a good boy and play with your toys." She retreated to the kitchen; the sounds of clinking dishes provided a domestic backdrop to his solitude. Avery looked around the playpen, his gaze drifting over the blocks and stuffed animals. He couldn’t bring himself to play with them, the intellectual part of his brain still reeling from being a man and a genius against this infantile reality. His eyes eventually landed on a set of Play-Doh containers and a stack of coloring books tucked into the corner of the playpen. The sight triggered a sharp, localized ache in his chest as he remembered Tilly and the way he had treated her earlier. He felt a wave of profound guilt wash over him; she had only been trying to be sweet in her own way, offering him the simple, uncomplicated kindness of a child, and he had met it with the sharp edges of his own anger and frustration. He realized then that his lashing out hadn't been about her at all, but about his own terror of the helplessness he was currently embracing. He sat amidst the colorful toys, feeling small and deeply regretful, wondering if she would ever truly want to speak to him again after he had been so cruel. He remained in the playpen for an extended period, his gaze drifting between the flickering television screen and the vibrant array of toys scattered around him. The initial resentment he had felt toward the confined space began to soften as he realized that Tilly had not designed this environment as a trap or a symbol of his limitations. Instead, she had intended it to be a sanctuary—a place where he could finally set aside the crushing weight of his genius and the trauma of the attack to simply relax and play. The realization deepened the localized ache of guilt in his chest. He reflected on his yesterdays lashing out, recognizing that his anger toward Tilly had been a misplaced reaction to his own terror of the helplessness he was now forced to embrace. When Darlene eventually returned to the room, Avery looked up at her from the padded mat of the playpen. He picked at the edge of a foam block for a moment without looking at it. "Can we go see Tilly today?" His voice came out smaller than he intended. "I want to get her something. Like a present. To say sorry for how I acted." "Tilly?" Darlene knelt beside the playpen, her brow furrowed with concern. "Sweetie, are you sure? We just had a huge morning, and you're still processing the news about Christy. Plus, we would have to drive quite a distance." "But I have to, Darlene," Avery insisted, scrambling closer to the mesh wall. "I was horrible to her. I yelled and made fun of the toys and the Play-Doh snake she made. She was just trying to be nice. If I don't apologize and show her I care, she’ll think I'm a don’t appreciate it, and I can't stand the thought of her being sad because of me and thinking of me as a horrible person." He sniffled, and his lower lip began to tremble. "It’s not just a gift; it's a peace offering and a way to say thank-you. I need to make it right." Darlene gently smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You are not a horrible person, Avery. You were frustrated, and you’re healing. But I understand. You have a very big heart, and that guilt must be heavy." She paused, considering the logistics. "It would be good for you to get out of the house, and I hope Tilly will love to see you and accept your apology." Avery's face brightened instantly. "So we can go?" "Hold on," Darlene said, pulling out her phone. "Margaret is always so kind about us visiting, but we can't just show up. I need to call her and see if Tilly is available and what time is best." She looked at her watch. "It’s a little early, but I we can call." Avery watched, fidgeting anxiously as Darlene dialed. The tension in his shoulders was palpable as he waited for the verdict. Darlene held the phone to her ear, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. "Hi, Margaret. It’s Darlene. I hope I'm not calling too early. Avery has been thinking a lot about Tilly and feels terrible about how he acted earlier. He’s insisting on coming over today to give her a proper apology and a peace offering, maybe buy her a new toy. Would this afternoon work for a quick visit?” The line hummed silently for a stretch as Margaret tapped out a message to Tilly, her thumbs a blur on the keys. Avery could almost see her on the other end, eyebrows raised in hopeful persuasion. Tilly's initial response was swift and stark: "No." But Margaret wasn't so easily deterred. She fired off another text, her words pixelating into a plea, a promise, a gentle prod. Avery imagined Tilly on the other side, arms crossed, lower lip jutting out, her resolve wavering like a toppling tower. Margaret's thumbs kept dancing, kept coaxing, until finally, a grudging "Ok fine" lit up the screen. Margaret got back on the phone with Darlene. Avery heard Darlene talking for a few minutes. She listened for a moment, her expression shifting from cautious to warmly receptive. "That's wonderful, thank you. We'll be there around seven tonight, then. I really appreciate it.  We won’t stay long because Avery needs to be in bed by 9 pm." Darlene hung up and smiled triumphantly at Avery. "Tilly is willing to see us. That gives us plenty of time to get you cleaned up, have a quiet activity, and then we’ll drive out. But first," she tapped the high mesh wall of the playpen, her voice dropping back into a firm, maternal tone, "we need to talk about getting dressed and getting your diaper changed for the trip.” No more fighting, you will wear what I put you in, or we are not going, understand?  You need to be a good boy for the ride and in the store." Avery nodded quickly, his desperation to make amends overriding his shame about his current state. The promise of the visit was a powerful motivator, and he was willing to trade his dignity for the chance to apologize. The day dragged on slowly, each hour measured by the kitchen clock's rhythmic ticking and the soft, repetitive melodies from the television. When Avery needed to pee, the old, sharp instinct to beg for the bathroom or struggle toward the door had finally begun to fade, replaced by a heavy, resigned acceptance. He remained in the playpen, his knees pulled to his chest, and quietly allowed himself to go in his thick diaper. The humid warmth spreading against his skin was no longer a shock but a familiar, albeit unsettling, accompaniment to his confinement. During lunch, the sense of displacement deepened. He stayed in the high chair far longer than his patience allowed, watching Darlene move through her domestic motions of cooking, feeding him spoonfuls of puree, and scrubbing the kitchen counters. The restrictive red tray felt like a permanent barrier across his lap. While still buckled into the harness, the pressure in his bladder became insistent once more. Instead of calling out, he simply looked down at the tray and wet his diaper right there in the high chair. It was a cold realization that this was becoming his new normal; he was beginning to understand that wetting his diaper was going to happen anywhere, and he could no longer help it. What truly frightened him was how much easier it was becoming. The intense focus he once needed to maintain control was slipping away, replaced by an instinctive surrender to his infantile state. As the daylight shifted across the playpen, his thoughts kept pulling in opposite directions. He wanted to see Tilly, needed to, but the wanting itself felt wrong somehow, like it was crowding out the more important thing: Christy was awake. Christy, who had a cerebral injury because of everything that had happened, was awake, and he was lying here in a playpen, worrying about whether a little girl would accept a toy from him. He tried to reorder his priorities, to put Christy first in his mind where she belonged, but Tilly kept sliding back to the front. The light in the living room was bright by the time Darlene's footsteps finally crossed the room. She unlatched the playpen's mesh side with a practiced motion and reached in, taking Avery's hand and drawing him out onto the wooden floor. "Now for a quick nap, then we go to the store," she said briskly, already steering him up the stairs. Avery recoiled. "No! I just woke up! I don't need a nap, Darlene, I'm nineteen, and we need to go, or we'll be late for Tilly." "It's only three o'clock, sweetie," Darlene countered, already lifting the crib rail. "We have hours. You’ve had a huge morning—the news about Christy, the excitement, all those big feelings. Your body needs rest to heal. If you don't nap, you'll be cranky at the store and at Tilly’s, and we won't go back to see Tilly again." She didn't wait for a reply, simply took his hand and guided his reluctant, padded form into the safety of the crib. Darlene guided Avery up the stairs, her hand pressing gently but firmly against his back, steering him towards the nursery. The room welcomed them with a soft, powdery scent, the faint aroma of baby lotion and baby powder. She approached the crib, its white bars gleaming in the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. Darelene lowered the crib rail, the plastic mechanism clicking smoothly into place. She turned to Avery, her hands on his shoulders, and knelt down to make eye contact. "Up you go," she murmured, helping him lift his leg over the lowered rail, his bulky diaper rustling with the movement. She supported his back as he clambered onto the mattress, his knees sinking slightly into the plush surface. Once he was seated, she lifted his feet one by one, tucking them under the covers, and pulled the soft cotton blanket up to his chest. Avery slumped against the mattress in protest. Darlene retrieved his pacifier from the nightstand. "Open up, It will help you settle down." He clamped his lips shut, turning his head away. "I can't. I don't," he mumbled, ashamed. " You need to be a good boy, Avery, you promised," Darlene warned, her voice firm. She leaned down, tucking him in, and then held the smooth silicone bulb patiently by his mouth until the tension of his jaw gave way. As soon as the pacifier was settled securely between his lips, Darlene rubbed his chest in slow, steady circles. His eyelids felt heavy, his resistance dissolving under Darlene's hypnotic presence. Within minutes, the soft crinkle of his diaper stopped as his breathing deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. He never fell asleep so easily. Darlene leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips barely grazing his warm skin. She straightened slowly, her eyes moving over him—the soft rise and fall of his chest, the pacifier still nestled at the corner of his mouth, the blanket tucked to his chin—before her hands found the crib rail and drew it up until the latch clicked quietly into place. She stood there a moment longer, then turned and slipped out of the room to get herself ready. —----——————————————-—----——————————————-—----——————————————-—---- Avery woke an hour later to the sound of Darlene quietly folding laundry in the rocking chair. He felt heavy, warm, and deeply rested; the tightness in his chest eased by the nap. He pulled the pacifier from his mouth and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t believe he feel asleep once again with the pacifier in his mouth. "Ready to go, sweetie?" Darlene asked, smiling. She stood, approaching the crib to get him out. Slowly lowering the railing "Yes," Avery said, and meant it—he was ready, he wanted to go. He swung his legs over the crib rail and caught his own reflection in the mirror across the room. He went still. The onesie. The wide, forced stance and the edges of the diaper just outside of the legs of the onesie. The pacifier still tucked in the corner of his mouth like he'd forgotten it was there, like it belonged. He reached up and pulled it out, but slowly, the way you set something down rather than the way you throw it. "Wait! I can't go out like this!" he yelled, scrambling back against the crib bars, his muscles tensing beneath the soft cotton of the onesie. "Avery, don't start," Darlene sighed, her earlier calmness instantly evaporating, replaced by a strain of weariness and rising frustration. "We don’t have much time, and we are not doing this now. We talked about this. You need to be in this to go out." "No! I'm not a baby, Darlene!" he cried, his voice pitching high and ragged. "I look—I look ridiculous! Everyone will stare! I’ll laugh at. I won't go out in public dressed like this, wearing a diaper and a onesie!" He slammed his uninjured left hand against the wooden rail, a desperate, childish gesture of defiance. Darlene dropped her voice to a low, warning tone. "Avery, that is enough. You promised to be a good boy. We are going to see Tilly, and you are going to wear the clothes I am going to pick out for you." "But they're for toddlers!" Avery screamed, tears of shame and fury flooding his eyes. He threw himself onto the padded mat of the crib, kicking his legs violently against the sides of the crib. The plastic backing of his fresh, thick diaper crinkled loudly with each flailing movement, punctuating his tantrum with a mortifying sound. "I hate these! I hate this stupid diaper! I hate that I need it! I won't go!" Darlene felt a wave of sharp, agonizing frustration. She had been patient all day, but the sudden, violent shift to this intense, two-year-old style meltdown—complete with illogical reasoning and physical lashing out—was exhausting and maddening. She took a sharp breath, clamping down on the urge to yell back. "Get up, Avery Thompson! Now!" she commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low pitch she rarely used. "You are acting like a baby, and babies listen to their mama! You promised Tilly! You want to apologize? Then you need to behave like a good boy, or we aren't going anywhere!" He didn't move, instead continuing to thrash and kick against the mattress, producing a flurry of loud crinkle-crackle noises. "No! Change me! I need different clothes! I need real pants! I need to be normal!" "You can't be normal right now!" Darlene snapped, losing her maternal calm for a split second. She realized the argument was futile and that the physical struggle was the only way through. She reached over the rail, grabbed him firmly by the shortall straps, and with a determined grunt, hauled his heavy, struggling form up and over the high rail, pinning him against her chest. Avery shrieked, batting weakly at her shoulders with his good hand, his body rigid in her arms. "Let me go! Stop! I don't want to go out! I don't want people to see!" Darlene squeezed him tightly, ignoring the hysterical protests and the squirming against her chest. She held him until his thrashing subsided into ragged, tearful sobs against her neck. "Too late, sweetie," she murmured, her voice stern but now regaining its authoritative calm. "You made a promise. Mama knows best, and Mama says we're going. You will apologize to Tilly, and you will be brave." She adjusted his heavy, diapered form in her arms, ensuring his feet were securely planted on the floor before releasing him. He stood there, sobbing, his face blotchy and red, the image of a child utterly defeated by a superior adult will. Darlene immediately took his hand, her grip warm and non-negotiable, and started leading him toward the changing table, not giving him a chance to stall. "We're just going to find a special gift for Tilly. It'll be quick, I promise. But first, let's get you properly changed and dressed." Avery's tantrum evaporated as Darlene hoisted him onto the changing table with a decisive motion, the red-stained terry cloth cover a harsh contrast to his flushed face. His shame was a hot, prickling sensation beneath his skin. Darlene, however, was a portrait of focused utility. She unsnapped his onesie and slid it over his head, letting the fabric fall away to expose the swollen, plastic-backed diaper he was wearing. Avery’s eyes refused to meet hers, instead locking onto the corner of the ceiling. He couldn’t believe he was going to have to go out dressed in a diaper and toddler clothes. “Still mostly dry, good boy,” she murmured, her voice entirely devoid of judgment, treating the assessment like checking a weather forecast. "But we are going out to shop for a toy, so we need to be dressed and looking cute." She peeled back the tapes of the current diaper and slid it out, then placed a new, diaper printed with cartoon animals and pastel stars—unmistakably designed for a child, yet sized, impossibly, for him. It felt impossibly thick, a statement of total dependence that made his body clench. As he lay exposed, arms tight at his sides, Darlene reached for the baby powder, shaking a cloud of the fine white dust over his inner thighs and bottom. The powder felt cool, almost shocking, against his warm skin. She massaged a protective layer of rash cream onto his groin with a firm, practiced touch, her fingers working with an impersonal intimacy that made his embarrassment twist into a painful knot. He hated this—the exposure, the necessity—but he lacked the will to stop her, feeling too weak to resist the security it offered. Once the new, thick diaper was secured with four crisp, loud snaps—making him feel perfectly swaddled and perfectly ridiculous—Darlene turned to the dresser. "We need something cheerful for our first big adventure," she decided, pulling out a soft, thick cotton onesie patterned with little red tugboats. She worked the garment over his head and fastened the metal buttons at the crotch with rhythmic clicks. Finally, she retrieved the heavy, stiff denim shortalls and slipped them onto him. Now, Avery stood in the center of the nursery, his knees shaking slightly as he looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. Beneath the denim, the unmistakable bulk of a fresh, high-capacity diaper created a wide, rounded silhouette that made his gait feel stiff and unnatural. Every time he shifted his weight, the tell-tale crinkle of plastic echoed against the wooden floorboards, a sound that felt like a siren in the quiet room. “Everyone will know.” The thought pounded in his head with the rhythm of a funeral dirge. “They’ll see the snaps, they’ll hear the crinkle, they’ll see a grown man dressed like a toddler.” He gripped the hem of the shortalls, his knuckles white, his breath hitching in his throat. He didn’t want to go out; he wanted to crawl back into the high rails of his crib and hide from the world’s judgment. But the guilt from his earlier tantrum over the high chair sat heavy in his chest, a leaden weight that balanced the terror of being seen. He needed to make it right with Darlene, to prove he could be the "good boy" she required for his recovery. More importantly, he wanted to find something for Tilly—a peace offering to apologize for his cruel behavior in front of her earlier that morning. Darlene hummed a low, soothing melody as she adjusted the straps on his shoulders, her face a mask of serene, maternal calmness. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and smoothed the denim over his padded hips with a practiced, gentle touch. "You look very handsome, Avery," she said, her voice steady and encouraging. She projected a confidence that suggested there was nothing unusual about a nineteen-year-old man in shortalls and a diaper heading to a toy store. Internally, however, Darlene’s heart was racing with a cocktail of protective ferocity and the desperate hope that she could shield him from even a single judgmental glance. She knew she had to be his anchor; if she showed even a flicker of doubt, his fragile resolve would shatter completely. The weight of his new reality pressed down on him as Darlene guided him toward the door. The thick padding between his legs forced his thighs apart, a physical reminder of his surrender to this infantile state. He could feel the moisture-wicking lining of the diaper against his skin, a stark contrast to the rough denim of the shortalls. Every step was a battle between his adult dignity and the child-like safety Darlene provided. He looked at her, searching for any sign of hesitation, but found only the unyielding warmth of a mother determined to heal her broken son. Darlene hummed as she adjusted the straps on his shoulders, her face a mask of serene, maternal calmness. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and smoothed the denim over his padded hips. "You look very handsome, Avery," she said, her voice steady and encouraging. She projected a confidence that suggested there was nothing unusual about a nineteen-year-old man in shortalls and a diaper heading to a toy store. Internally, however, Darlene’s heart was racing. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest, a cocktail of protective ferocity and the desperate hope that she could shield him from a single judgmental glance. She knew she had to be his anchor; if she showed even a flicker of doubt, his fragile resolve would shatter. "I don't think I can do this," Avery whispered as they reached the car. He felt the heavy weight of the diaper sagging slightly, the thick padding between his thighs forcing him into a waddle that made him want to crawl back into his crib. Darlene simply took his hand, her grip warm and non-negotiable. "We're just going to find a special gift for Tilly. It'll be quick, I promise."  Darlene guided him into the back seat with a firm, practiced hand at his elbow, the way you might steady someone recovering from surgery. The seatbelt clicked across his chest. Through the window, the neighborhood sat exposed and indifferent in the midday light—anyone could see in. He pressed his knees together and stared at his lap, at the denim pulled taut over the thick padding beneath, and felt the particular humiliation of knowing exactly what he looked like. As Darlene reversed down the driveway, a figure at the edge of his vision made his breath stop. Tall. Wide shoulders. The same unhurried, heavy way of moving. "That's John." The words came out before he could stop them, high and strange. "That's John, that's John—" "Avery." Darlene's voice was immediate and level. "That's my lawn man. He's been cutting this grass for six years." But Avery couldn't pull his eyes from the figure, from the particular angle of those shoulders as the man turned away from them, pushing the mower in a long straight line. His pulse was loud in his ears. It wasn't John. He knew it wasn't John. The knowing didn't help. Darlene had put something soft on the radio, and she talked to him in the same low, even tone she used when she changed him—not saying anything that required an answer, just filling the silence. Avery watched the neighborhoods scroll past the window and worked on slowing his breathing. By the time she pulled into the parking lot, the big primary-colored sign of the toy store was already visible above the row of cars, his hands had mostly stopped shaking from the thought of John, but a deep ache in his stomach occurred from the thought of.   The toy store was a sensory overload of primary colors and high-pitched music. Avery kept his head down, staring at the scuffed linoleum, certain that every shopper was tracking the rhythmic crinkle-crunch of his movements. The stiff denim of his shortalls seemed to amplify every sound, the thick, absorbent mass of his diaper shifting loudly with each hesitant step. He felt exposed, his knees knocking together in a wide, awkward gait that he was sure screamed "infant" to everyone in the building. He gripped the edge of his denim straps, his knuckles white, feeling the heavy, humid weight of the padding sagging against his thighs. "Darlene, please, I feel so out of place," Avery whispered, his voice cracking as he leaned toward her, seeking shelter. "Everyone is looking. They know." Darlene stopped, turning to face him and resting her hands on his shoulders. "Avery, look at me. No one is looking at your diaper; they're just shoppers in a store. You are being so brave right now, doing this for Tilly. Think of how happy she'll be. You're being a very good boy for her." Avery swallowed hard, the mention of his apology giving him a sliver of resolve. He wanted to apologize to Tilly. This was his idea. Darlene gently laced her fingers through his left hand, holding his hand firmly in hers, the way a mother holds a nervous toddler in a busy crowd. The physical connection felt oddly necessary and grounding, preventing him from bolting. Avery tried to focus on the vibrant chaos around them, but his entire sensory focus was on the internal, uncomfortable proof of his state. The shortalls felt ridiculously tight across his broad shoulders, and he could feel the fabric pulling taut over the enormous, stiff bulk of the high-capacity diaper secured beneath. Every subtle adjustment he made—a slight swivel of his hips, a shift in balance—was accompanied by the distinct shhhhhhk of the plastic backing, a sound he was convinced was audible over the store's pop music. He kept his chin tucked, trying to disappear behind the large, protective figure of Darlene. They moved toward the construction aisle, and Avery was intensely focused on a display of brightly colored stacking rings, trying to regain some sense of mental distance, when a woman pushing a shopping cart stopped abruptly beside them. She was mid-thirties, dressed in athleisure wear, with a perpetually disapproving frown fixed on her face. Her own small child, securely strapped into the cart seat, was chewing on a plastic toy. The woman’s eyes drifted from Avery’s size, taking in the full spectacle of the adult man in shortalls, the careful way Darlene held his hand, and finally, settling with an unmistakable, cold certainty on the obvious bulge and crinkle of the thick diaper beneath his denim. The stare was sharp, prolonged, and laced with palpable judgment and disdain. A wave of humiliation so intense it felt physical washed over Avery, making his ears ring. He flinched, pulling his shoulder inward and trying to shrink away, exactly as he had feared he would. Darlene felt the instantaneous retreat in his body and immediately sensed the source. She met the woman's gaze, her own expression instantly hardening into a look of cold, protective fury. Her eyes were narrowed, and she held the stare—a silent, dangerous challenge that dared the stranger to offer even a single syllable of comment. The sheer intensity of Darlene’s glare, radiating the unyielding territoriality of a fierce mother, was enough. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the judgmental woman visibly recoiled, her disapproval turning to quick discomfort. She quickly tugged her cart handle and pulled away, shaking her head slightly in silent dismissal as she rushed down the aisle. Darlene did not break the connection with Avery. She squeezed his hand firmly, pulling his attention back to her. "See, sweetie?" she murmured, her voice steady now, the earlier hardness gone. "She was just looking for a toy for her little one. She didn't see anything. Now, let's find Tilly's gift." They paused first at a massive display of advanced construction kits—intricate sets featuring thousands of tiny interlocking plastic bricks for building detailed spaceships and architectural models. Avery shook his head, looking sad. "No," he whispered to Darlene, speaking low so only she could hear. "She’s a girl and not me, Darlene. This is what I would have wanted at her play age—something logical and frustratingly difficult. It’s too much like work. It wouldn't be fun for her, and it wouldn't be a true apology for me being so rigid." "You’re thinking very carefully, sweetie," Darlene murmured, squeezing his hand reassuringly. They moved next to the electronic aisle, stopping before a shelf of interactive robotic pets that chirped and danced on command. "How about a puppy that walks?" Darlene suggested. Avery watched one of the plastic dogs whir and bark mechanically. He pulled his hand back slightly. "No. It’s too lifelike, and that makes it unsettling," he explained softly. "It pretends to need care, but it’s just circuitry. Tilly is about genuine emotion. If I give her a toy that fakes affection, it trivializes the real effort she made trying to cheer me up." "You want something that encourages genuine play and creativity, then," Darlene summarized, guiding him past the display. They stopped at the wall of plush animals. Avery’s initial assessment still held—most were too generic. He looked specifically at a bright yellow talking parrot plush that repeated phrases. "Definitely not this," he stated, pointing. "I was rude and repetitive to her. Giving her a toy that just mimics speech would be a terrible metaphor for my bad behavior." He then focused on a set of artist dolls with elaborate, changeable wardrobes and tiny paint palettes. "These are beautiful, but they’re about aesthetics and perfection," Avery noted, leaning in closer. "Tilly’s art isn't about being perfect; it’s about making a mess and exploring feelings. The apology shouldn't demand neatness or flawlessness. That's what I was demanding of myself." Darlene was quite surprised at his ability to seem to understand Tilly; his emotional awareness of her was amazing. Darlene waited patiently, her thumb rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand, letting him lead the search. "Keep looking, Avery, you'll know the right one when you see it." They rounded the corner into an aisle dedicated to creative play that was slightly less crowded. Finally, his eyes landed on a colorful box on a middle shelf. It depicted small, fuzzy animal figures being washed in a tiny tub. "This one," he said, pointing with his good hand, his voice gaining a quiet certainty. "This unique set combines coloring with animal figures. Kids can color the 3D fuzzy pets (like a unicorn or dragon) with washable markers, then give them a bath in the included tub to scrub them clean and start over." He turned to Darlene, his eyes shining with relief. "This is perfect, Darlene, because of the clean-up. When I yelled at Tilly, I made a mess of her kindness and our friendship. This toy lets her make a beautiful mess, and then she gets to scrub it all clean, making it new again. It’s a complete cycle of acceptance and starting over." It reminded him of the bath Darlene had given him—a cycle of being messy and then being made clean and safe again. Darlene beamed at him, her hand smoothing the hair from his forehead. "Oh, Avery, that is a wonderful choice. Darlene agrees it's the perfect gift for Tilly." She gently tugged his hand toward the box. "Now let's go pay for this and get a delicious treat for our good boy." Avery smiled gratefully at Darlene, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as the warmth of her approval enveloped him. Together, they made their way to the checkout counter, the box of the unique art set cradled between them. The simple act of selecting the perfect gift for Tilly had been a soothing balm for their strained relationship. Avery smiled gratefully at Darlene, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as the warmth of her approval enveloped him. Together, they made their way toward the front of the store, the box of the unique art set cradled between them. The simple act of selecting the perfect gift for Tilly had been a soothing balm for their strained relationship, but the true ordeal was yet to come. The line at the checkout counter was short—only three people deep—but to Avery, it felt like a mile-long gauntlet lined with spectators. He stood pressed against Darlene’s side, gripping the hem of his denim shortalls with his good hand. The combination of the high-energy fluorescent lighting and the confined space of the aisle seemed to amplify every sound his body made. Each tiny shift of weight in the queue produced a soft, unmistakable crinkle-crackle from the thick, plastic-backed diaper beneath his shortalls. His face was hot, his ears ringing with the conviction that this sound was the loudest thing in the entire store. He kept his head bowed, fixated on the colorful floor tiles, desperate for the ground to swallow him whole. "Darlene, hurry," he whispered, his voice tight with panic. "I can hear my diaper, and I feel like I'm wearing a sign that says 'toddler' in bright letters." "No one can hear your diaper, sweetie," Darlene murmured back, her voice low and steady, her free hand coming up to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. "They’re just tired shoppers. Hold my hand, look at the candy display, and just breathe. You are being so brave right now." When they finally reached the counter, Avery stood rigidly as Darlene placed the box onto the conveyor belt. The cashier was a pleasant woman in her late fifties named Brenda, wearing a bright green apron. Brenda’s gaze started at the item, but then drifted upward, taking in Avery’s large frame, the tugboat onesie visible beneath the denim shortalls, and the wide, awkward set of his legs. Her eyes settled, with a professional but definite curiosity, on the immense, rounded bulge of the high-capacity diaper visible under the taut denim. The size and shape were undeniable. Brenda smiled warmly, completing the scan with a cheerful beep, but mistakenly directed her comment straight at Avery, assuming the toy was for him. "Oh, aren't these the best, honey? Those little pets are so much fun to scrub clean. You must be such a good boy to get this new toy. Are you excited to take them home and play?" Avery froze. The assumption, the simple, kindly tone of the question, sliced through his remaining adult composure. He was being addressed like a child by a complete stranger in a public place. His cheeks instantly flushed a deep, painful red, feeling the blood pound behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, trying to choke out a correction—I’m nineteen! It’s for my friend!—but all that emerged was a helpless, strangled sound. He stared at the cashier, his shame mute and absolute. Darlene instantly stepped forward, her voice bright and firm, cutting off any further humiliation. She put her arm around Avery's shoulders, pulling him slightly into her side. "It's for his friend, Tilly," she corrected gently, her smile unwavering but holding a clear, protective boundary. "It's an apology gift. He picked it out all by himself because he was a bit cross with her earlier. He has excellent taste, doesn't he?" Brenda blinked, caught off guard by the mature explanation and the sudden intensity of Darlene's protective posture. She quickly adjusted her tone, clearly processing the unexpected dynamic. "Oh! Well, that is very thoughtful of him," she said, bagging the toy quickly. She still couldn't shake her first impression, however, and added, "What a sweet boy you are for thinking of your friend. That'll be twenty-one ninety-nine." Avery kept his head down, gripping Darlene’s shirt, unable to lift his gaze until Darlene had completed the payment and taken the bag. The cashier's pitying smile and "sweet boy" comment confirmed every agonizing fear he had about being seen. He felt utterly exposed, his adult identity dissolved by a single, misplaced question. As Darlene took the bag, she pulled Avery close, her body a comforting buffer as they navigated the exit. "It's okay, little one," she whispered against his hair. "It's done. You were so brave, Avery. You made it through, and now Tilly has the perfect gift." Avery could only nod, mute with residual shame, his whole body tense until they were safely out the automatic doors. The cool evening air wrapped around them like a comforting embrace, the sound of the store fading behind them. Walking side by side, Avery felt a sense of peace begin to settle within him, despite the raw sting of the checkout experience. The echoes of their earlier tension had dissipated, replaced by a renewed sense of connection and understanding. Darlene's presence was a steady anchor, grounding him in the present moment. Once they reached the car, Darlene placed a gentle kiss on Avery's cheek, her love and forgiveness evident in her touch. "Thank you for today, Avery," she whispered, her voice filled with warmth. "You're a little boy with a wonderful heart, and I'm grateful for you. Now lets go see Tilly" Avery's heart swelled with emotion, a sense of gratitude washing over him. Taking Darlene's hand in his, he squeezed it gently, his eyes meeting hers with a depth of feeling that transcended words. In that simple gesture, they found solace in each other's forgiveness and a renewed sense of hope for the future.

Chapter 45: They made their way back up through the lobby of Disney’s Art of Animation Resort, the elevator doors sliding shut with a soft ding.   Jack stood between them, holding onto Jill’s hand, Flopsy tucked close under his arm.   At first, everything was fine.   Then—He shifted. Just a little.   His expression changed.   A pause.   “…mm…” he murmured, brows knitting slightly.   Jill noticed immediately. “Hey… what’s wrong?”   Jack didn’t answer right away.   He just looked down, uncomfortable.   Then the realization hit him—and his face crumpled.   “…no…” he whispered.   ⸻   Marcus glanced over, already understanding. “Hey, it’s okay.”   Jack shook his head quickly, his grip tightening.   “I didn’t mean to…” his voice wavered.   The elevator suddenly felt very small.   Very quiet.   ⸻   Jill crouched as much as she could in the limited space, her voice soft and steady.   “Hey… look at me.”   Jack tried, but his eyes were already watering.   “I messed…” he said, embarrassed, upset.   ⸻   The pacifier was offered instinctively, and he took it—but it didn’t quite settle him this time.   He sucked on it, but his shoulders still trembled.   Still upset.   Still overwhelmed.   ⸻   “It’s alright,” Marcus said gently. “We’ll get you cleaned up as soon as we get to the room.”   Jack shook his head again, tears slipping free now.   “No… no…”   ⸻   The elevator dinged again.   Doors opened.   Perfect timing.   ⸻   Jill didn’t waste a second.   “Let’s go, sweetheart,” she said, guiding him quickly but calmly down the hall.   Marcus unlocked the door as fast as he could.   ⸻   Inside, Jill got everything ready immediately—no delay, no stress added to the moment.   “Come here,” she said softly, helping Jack lie down.   He clung to Flopsy at first, still upset, still breathing unevenly.   “I don’t like it…” he said, voice small and shaky.   ⸻   “I know,” Jill replied gently. “I know you don’t.”   Marcus stayed close, kneeling beside him.   “But we’re right here,” he added. “We’ve got you.”   ⸻   Jill worked quickly but carefully, keeping her tone calm and reassuring the whole time.   “You’re okay… just a quick change… almost done…”   Jack sniffled, still tense, still uncomfortable—but slowly, bit by bit, the reassurance started to reach him.   ⸻   Marcus gently distracted him, brushing his hair back.   “Hey… remember what we’re doing today?”   Jack hiccuped slightly. “…movies…”   “That’s right,” Marcus said. “Big day.”   ⸻   By the time Jill finished, Jack’s breathing had slowed.   The worst of the moment had passed.   He was clean.   Comfortable again.   ⸻   Jill helped him sit up, pulling him into a soft hug.   “There we go,” she whispered.   Jack leaned into her immediately, holding on tight.   “…sorry…” he murmured.   ⸻   Jill pulled back just enough to look at him.   “No apologies,” she said gently.   Marcus nodded. “None.”   ⸻   Jack blinked up at them, still a little unsure—but calmer now.   “Okay…” he said softly.   ⸻   Jill wiped the last of his tears and adjusted his clothes.   “All set,” she said.   Marcus stood, grabbing the bag again. “Ready for Hollywood Studios?”   ⸻   Jack hesitated for just a second—Then nodded.   “…ready.”   ⸻   And just like that—the moment passed, replaced by comfort, support, and the promise of another adventure waiting just outside the door.     Chapter 46: A few minutes later, everything was back in place.   Bag checked.   Water, snacks, essentials—packed.   Jack stood by the door, calmer now, Flopsy tucked under his arm and his lanyard resting against his chest.   Jill gave him one last look-over, smoothing his shirt gently. “All set?”   Jack nodded, a little quieter than before—but steady. “All set.”   Marcus grabbed the room key and opened the door. “Alright… Hollywood, here we come.”   ⸻   They stepped out into the bright Florida morning and made their way through the lively grounds of Disney’s Art of Animation Resort.   The energy was already building again—families heading out, kids chatting excitedly, buses coming and going.   Jack held Jill’s hand this time without being asked.   Still grounded.   Still recovering just a bit.   ⸻   They reached the bus stop, joining a small group already waiting.   Jack leaned lightly against Jill’s side.   “You okay?” she asked softly.   He nodded. “Yeah… better.”   Marcus smiled. “Good. Big day ahead.”   ⸻   The bus arrived shortly after, doors folding open with a hiss.   They boarded together, finding a spot where Jack could sit close again.   This time, he didn’t look around as much.   He just stayed near—one hand holding Flopsy, the other lightly gripping Jill’s sleeve.   ⸻   The bus pulled away, heading toward Disney’s Hollywood Studios.   Marcus glanced over. “You excited?”   Jack nodded slowly.   “…movies,” he said.   Jill smiled. “That’s right.”   ⸻   As the ride continued, Jack gradually relaxed again.   He peeked out the window.   Watched the scenery pass.   Touched his pins one by one.   “Tigger… Dino… Paw…” he whispered, like a quiet reassurance.   ⸻   Marcus leaned forward slightly. “You think we’ll find more pins today?”   Jack looked up, a small spark returning.   “…more?” he asked.   “Maybe even movie ones,” Marcus said.   Jack sat up just a little straighter.   “Movie pins…”   ⸻   By the time the bus slowed to a stop, Jack looked more like himself again.   Curious.   Ready.   ⸻   They stepped off together, the entrance to Disney’s Hollywood Studios stretching out ahead of them.   It felt different from the other parks.   More like stepping into scenes.   Into stories.   ⸻   Jack looked around, taking it all in.   “…this is movie place,” he said.   Jill nodded. “It is.”   Marcus smiled. “And we’re just getting started.”   ⸻   Jack reached up, adjusting his lanyard.   Held Flopsy a little tighter.   Then looked forward again.   “Let’s go.”   The moment they stepped fully into Disney’s Hollywood Studios, Jack’s energy shifted again.   Not the overwhelmed kind from earlier.   More focused now.   More grounded.   He slid his hand into Marcus’s almost immediately.   “…Daddy,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.   Marcus glanced down, smiling. “Yeah, buddy?”   Jack squeezed his hand. “We here.”   Jill walked just beside them, watching with a soft expression. “We are.”   ⸻   They moved slowly down the main pathway, the park opening up around them—giant signage, themed buildings, music drifting through the air like they’d stepped into different worlds stitched together.   Jack looked up constantly.   Every few steps.   “Movie place…” he said again, quieter but more certain now.   Marcus nodded. “Exactly.”   ⸻   It didn’t take long before Jack spotted it.   A Cast Member with a lanyard full of pins near a themed storefront.   Jack stopped instantly.   “Pins, Daddy,” he said, tugging Marcus’s hand slightly.   Marcus chuckled. “I see them.”   ⸻   They approached, and Jack hesitated only a moment before leaning in to study the collection.   He was more confident now—less rushed, more curious.   His fingers hovered over a few designs before he pointed.   “That one.”   A colorful movie-themed pin.   Perfect for where they were.   ⸻   The trade was smooth.   Jack carefully unclipped one of his own pins, then watched closely as the new one was placed onto his lanyard.   He looked down at it with quiet pride.   “Movie pin,” he said softly.   Marcus smiled. “Good pick.”   Jack nodded. “Good.”   Then, almost instinctively—   “…Daddy, I got it.”   “I see it,” Marcus said warmly. “You did that.”   ⸻   They continued on, Jack still holding Marcus’s hand tightly.   Every so often:   “Daddy, look.”   “Daddy, this way.”   “Daddy, ride?”   Each time Marcus answered gently, steady and present.   “Yeah, I’m here.”   “We’ll see it.”   “One step at a time.”   ⸻   Eventually, they reached their first stop of the day: Mickey & Minnie’s Runaway Railway.   Jack tilted his head up at the colorful entrance.   “…train?”   Marcus nodded. “A movie train ride.”   Jack’s eyes widened slightly. “Movie ride…”   Jill smiled. “This one is fun. No scary parts.”   Jack seemed to like that reassurance.   “…okay.”   ⸻   Before they got in line, Jill gently leaned down.   “Quick stop first, okay?”   Jack nodded immediately. “Okay, Mommy.”   He stayed close as they headed toward a nearby family restroom, still holding Marcus’s hand the whole way.   ⸻   Inside, everything was quick and calm.   Marcus helped keep Jack distracted while Jill handled things smoothly and gently, keeping the moment simple and matter-of-fact.   “All done,” she said after a minute, brushing his hair back.   Jack exhaled softly. “Okay.”   Marcus crouched slightly. “Ready for your ride now?”   Jack nodded, a little more settled again. “Ride.”   ⸻   Back outside, the energy of the park returned around them.   Jack immediately reached for Marcus’s hand again.   “…Daddy,” he said, as if checking he was still there.   Marcus squeezed back. “I’m right here.”   ⸻   They joined the queue for the ride, the colorful world of movie magic building around them as they moved forward.   Jack looked up at the signs, then at Jill, then back at Marcus.   “…we go together?”   Marcus nodded. “Always together.”   Jack smiled faintly.   “Good.”   ⸻   And as they stepped closer to their very first ride of the day—he stayed right between them, ready for whatever movie world came next.

34. My Hypnotised Baby Girl Ffrances talked Tess through keeping her eyes on the metronome, and focusing completely on her words. It was a script I was already familiar with, and I thought it was probably a good choice for someone new to this kind of thing. In the past we had tried all kinds of innovative and experimental techniques, but I didn’t know how many of those had only been effective because of the rapport we already had, and my having enough experience to find the place in my mind that she was leading me to. Not that I could remember all of those techniques anyway, but it already felt fresh and new. Ffrances was the one who really understood hypnosis, and I knew that she would do exactly what was best for our little one. I was really excited now, looking forward to seeing how young I could make Tess. I found myself starting to anticipate the fun that would come after this, and that made it easier to stare at the metronome. The needle ticked back and forth, and my thoughts swung between the words Ffrances was saying and the experiences they were going to enable. But I knew this technique well enough, and it wasn’t the version that she had slowly adapted, tailoring it to be more effective on me. She was focusing on Tess now and letting me go along for the ride. As long as I paid attention to the nuances in her language rather than following the instructions, I wouldn’t quite sink into the trance. I could just go along with it, making sure that she was giving Tess the same suggestions we had agreed on. I would keep my own mind sharp, so I could be sure that I would say all the right things when Tess was actually being a baby. I was going to make sure that she slipped straight back to that state in future, until she got used to it and accepted that she was my little one. She told Tess that she was going to feel herself getting a little younger as she tried on the clothes that Ffrances had selected; and that she was going to find it easier to feel childlike for the rest of the day. As always, she repeated and reinforced the instruction that this would only last for today; remembering suggestions could sometimes be like remembering a dream, and she wanted to make sure that this particular part got through. She asked Tess to remember being younger again; how she might have felt at different ages. And she asked her to imagine how it would feel if she found herself getting even younger. To imagine shrinking, and feel all her adult worries drifting away until the only thoughts she needed would be things that she could enjoy at that age. She told us to imagine each other getting younger as well; that we would see each other as the age we were supposed to be, while the game developed. Again, she reinforced that this would only be for today, and that we could go back to our real ages at the end of the day. While I listened, I kept on nodding. I’d let my eyes close when it seemed like the right time; I didn’t want to be a distraction during Tess’s first session, and I didn’t really need to take in these suggestions. It would be enough for me to play along, just so that Tess would feel safe thinking that she wasn’t alone in her regression. Maybe Ffrances knew that I wasn’t following, but she didn’t say anything about it, just kept on talking to both of us as if we were both in trance. The next part of the trance was concerning her age. She said that to start with we would be almost the same age. That we would see ourselves as being pretty similar, until we were told otherwise, and would just be excited to play together. And she told us that although Tess was slightly older, we would know that it wasn’t a huge difference, and that the adults expected us to treat each other as equals. Well, that wasn’t quite right. I’d have to turn that around pretty quickly, because one of the reasons I’d set up this whole intervention was so that Tess could find out what it was like to be the younger one for a change. Then it was on to the important things. The instructions that would make my life easier if I knew exactly how they worked. Ffrances said that we would be easily amused, and we wouldn’t worry too much about adult things. That when we noticed ourselves acting childish, it would only be an excuse to laugh. That if someone else comforted us like children, it would be easier for us to see ourselves like that, and it would take away any guilt or shame about acting that way. And these parts didn’t have the usual constant reminders that they would go back to normal at the end of the day. Instead, Ffrances said that it would be the same any time we did something childish, or chose to dress like children. Doing something childish would always make us feel just a little more comfortable with being treated like children, and more accepting of any instructions we got from an adult. Once we knew the childish mindset, being caught doing appropriate actions would always remind us of that feeling. It wouldn’t make us do anything, or cause a complete change. She was careful to state that; she didn’t want Tess to get carried away and lose herself in that little girl headspace. But she was clear that if we ever found it hard to get back into that state of mind, doing something childish would bring it within reach. Doing something childish and having it acknowledged by a trusted adult would give us an easy way to step away from adult thoughts for a while; so that if Tess wanted to get her headspace back, she would still need my approval. And even then, it would only make it easier for her to accept being treated like a child, and happier about taking the adult’s suggestions. I filed all those details away in my memory, both so I could play along with the suggestions as if I was following them too, and so that I would understand how to help her in future. After all, I already knew that I could help Tess to do something childish any day of the week. And if it made it easier for her to do what I said, I would be able to bring her a little closer to a real baby each time. And then we were on the final part of the instructions, and this one was again for today only. Ffrances told me that for the rest of the afternoon, if she told me how old I was, I would find myself acting the part. Maybe a little embarrassed, maybe a little confused, but with no need to fight it. Those thoughts would seem so natural that as long as it lasted, I wouldn’t have a problem with them even if I knew I was normally too old to think like that. She could tell me how old I was, and how I would feel at that age, and my subconscious would just make it happen. Her words were so poetic, and conjured up the scene in my imagination so well, that I was sure I would have ended up feeling like a real teen babysitter if I’d been in trance. It would have been just as intense as Tess’s feeling of being a real baby. And when she had finished with me, Ffrances gave the same suggestions to Tess. Except, of course, that this time it was either me or Ffrances who had the power to tell her to get younger. Because she could trust me, as if I was really older than her, and mature enough to know what was safe. As Ffrances guided us up again, telling us to let the suggestions fade from our dreams into reality as we woke up, I stretched out my arms and treated her to a big smile. “All ready to play, girls?” she asked. “Yeah,” Tess answered with a smile. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Let’s do it.” “Well…” I mumbled. I had to say something, because Ffrances would probably have picked up from my body language that I wasn’t the right kind of attentive. But I didn’t think that would be a problem. “I think I wasn’t as deep as I usually am. It’s a new experience, having Tess here as well, and maybe it’ll take me a while to get used to it. I remember more than usual, I’ve got a vague impression of the suggestions, and I think I was analysing some words when I should have been following them. But I don’t think we need to go again. We can see if it works anyway, and if it doesn’t I’d be happy enough playing along for now. It doesn’t need to be completely real, just to give… us a sense if we’ll enjoy this kind of thing in future.” “Wait,” Tess piped up just as soon as I finished speaking. She’d been looking at me, waiting for a moment to get a word in, but I’d been determined to finish the explanation so Ffrances didn’t feel like she had to give me an extra trance to reinforce the effect. She would understand, anyhow, because as far as she knew this was all really for Tess’s benefit, and I was only joining in so the little one would have the confidence to ask for what she wanted. “Hmm?” “Wait, did you already do it? I didn’t… was I blanked out like that thing you did to Gabby?” “You were,” Ffrances nodded. “And you were a very good subject. People with a strong imagination usually are. I gave you the suggestions that you already asked for. You’ll be able to feel a little younger when you try on the clothes I’ve selected for you, and if you enjoy it you’ll be able to bring a trace of those feelings back at a later date. Just decide to do something childish, and if someone else responds by treating you like a child, you won’t be troubled by worries about whether it’s appropriate for your age.” “Thank you,” I asked. “I’m a little excited to try this now. So, should we both go and get changed?”

It's not normally the day I'd be posting this story, but I'm probably shaking up my system. From now on, I'm going to try to post a chapter of something every day. So, if I don't have a chapter of The Littlest Spy ready on the day I'd usually post it, you get one of this story instead  Hope you enjoy!     34. Precise Instructions Ffrances started talking without a pause, telling Gabby how easy it was to imagine the things she was talking about, and how easy it would be to follow her instructions. To imagine that for the rest of the day, whatever happened, she would find that she was always a little younger than Tess. If Tess had to behave a certain way as part of being younger, then Gabby would have to do the same. And whether they were both in trance or not, Gabby would feel compelled to go along with any post-hypnotic suggestions that Tess was given. She was very clear that these instructions would last the rest of the day, and wouldn’t have any effect in the future. Tess counted the same reminder repeated in different ways at least a dozen times. She wanted to ask if that was necessary for hypnosis, a way to make sure that her instructions weren’t misunderstood or something, but she could already guess that interrupting this session wouldn’t be a good idea. “Just relax,” Ffrances continued, “and imagine all the things I’ve described. Focus on those thoughts, those dreams, and let them become more real in your mind. Let yourself dwell on them for a minute or two, until you are certain you will be able to feel those things, and then you can let yourself wake up. You don’t need to remember these suggestions until after you’ve experienced them, so you can find that it’s all a surprise if you would like that. So for now, let yourself imagine, until you need to wake up.” Ffrances finished her speech, before turning back to Tess when Gabby began gently nodding, her eyes still closed. “See? Just like that. Of course, it’s quicker because she already has practice finding her way into trance. If you’re sure you’re up for this, I’m going to be focusing on your feelings, and on how you want to feel. I didn’t want to leave you both waiting while I prepare the other. And if I try to hypnotise two people at once, I suspect Gabby would be able to resist. I try to match the pace to the subject’s state of mind, you see, and I’d be focusing on you because you’ve not done this before. She’s a big one for trying to spoil her own surprises. Somewhere inside her is a desire to always be in control, although that’s a side of her that she’s unwilling to let out between the two of us. I think she’d try to avoid trance, and just play along, which would spoil the surprise a little. So I’ve made it so she will find herself following all the instructions I give you even if she’s not properly in trance. Is that okay?” Tess had some trouble understanding all of that, but after a while she dismissed it as something that mattered more to Gabby than to her. She didn’t need to understand all the nuances of how the hypnosis worked, although she could imagine getting more curious once she had experienced it. “That’s fine,” she said, nodding again. “And you, Gabby? Are you awake yet? Earth to Gabrielle?” Tess turned and shook Gabby’s shoulder which seemed to get her attention. “I said, is that okay?” Ffrances repeated. “Sorry, didn’t realise you were talking to me.” Ffrances went on to explain roughly what they had in mind; having them dress up in some old clothes that she had found, to recreate that photograph, and then finding themselves feeling like they were a few years younger again. Gabby nodded, and said that was fine. But then she added something else; asking if she could make it last more than just today. So that after today, if she wanted to feel younger again, she wouldn’t need more hypnosis. She suggested that if she decided to act like a child in future, or dressed up in childish clothes again, she would find it easier to accept other people treating her like a kid in response, and wouldn’t feel awkward about the responses of people she trusted. Tess hesitated just a moment when she compared this to her earlier thoughts about just trying this once. But then she realised that it didn’t make any difference to her. If Gabby wanted to be a child again, she could dress up and let Ffrances or Tess call her a baby. And if Tess wanted to keep on seeing herself as an adult, she only needed to keep on acting like an adult. There was no harm in it, so she agreed. Maybe she would have asked to do that separately, but she didn’t think it could possibly be a problem, and she felt like they’d already spent enough time discussing it. She was here to be hypnotised, and she was already getting impatient.  But it seemed there was one more bit of explanation left: about how hypnosis itself would actually take place. Ffrances explained that she was going to start the metronome, and then they were going to focus on it. They would start to focus so intently on that little silver needle swinging back and forth that they would take in all Ffrances’s words without really processing them. She would describe a scene to imagine, and it would seem almost like reality because they weren’t concentrating on her words enough to decide if they were true or not. And then their focus would start to swing back and forth between the metronome itself and Ffrances, getting deeper into trance each time they went back and forth between imagining the scene she described and feeling it. By that point Tess could already see in her mind’s eye how she could start to be overwhelmed by the different thoughts, and lose the ability to distinguish between the real world and what she was being told. When Ffrances reached forward and tapped the metronome to set it moving, she found that she was already imagining how good it would feel to go into trance. She was ready now, and she really wanted to experience it right away, without the need for any more explanation. The images were so vivid in her mind that it was all she could think about, just hoping that Ffrances would be ready soon, to start the trance that they were probably both craving. “All ready to play, girls?” Ffrances asked, cheerful as ever. Tess pouted a little; she’d been ready for an hour now, and they just seemed to be talking. “Yeah,” she said, and her displeasure rushed away just as quickly as it had come. There would be no more waiting, she was sure. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Let’s do it.” Ffrances smiled and turned her attention back to Gabby, who was already giving her own confirmation. “Well, I don’t think I was as deep as I usually am,” she stated. She went on to say that she thought she had taken in the post-hypnotic suggestions, but she wasn’t quite sure, and that she thought it was just because Ffrances had been concentrating on Tess. But even if she partially remembered the hypnosis, she didn’t want to delay playing any longer; she would be happy enough playing along, even if it only felt a little more realistic. “Wait,” Tess said as soon as Gabby’s monologue ended. She’d been trying to understand what her cousin was getting at, until the realisation finally hit her. She remembered Ffrances telling her how she would feel when she started the metronome, and Ffrances starting the metronome, and imagining how it would feel to focus on it… and then she was looking away, and the steady tick-tick-tick had already stopped. There was a gap in there somewhere, but she couldn’t work out where. And Gabby seemed to be talking as if they had already done something. It was so easy to imagine herself nodding in silence, imagining what she had been told to, just like she’d seen Gabby do a few minutes before. “Wait, did you do it already? Was I blanked out like that thing you did to Gabby?” “You were. And you were a very good subject.” Tess was so excited now that she couldn’t wait. It was real. The whole thing was real, and she’d just been hypnotised. That meant more to her than she ever would have imagined.

I’m surprised there aren’t any fanfics about it honestly