Diaper References

Sally’s Christmas gift from her dad was supposed to be simple: Something about driving, something honest and mechanical she could hold onto. Instead, it detonated her whole week in the best way. A no-nonsense instructor named Morgan Hale took one look at Sally’s manual Fiesta and decided she was worth teaching, then rewired how she moved through the world: reading traffic like a language, taking exits before danger had a chance to form, learning that control isn’t force, it’s awareness. By the time Sally’s hands graduated from “careful” to “collected” on a BMW that told the truth back, she wasn’t chasing speed anymore, she was chasing consistency, discipline, grace under pressure. And somewhere between skid pads, sunburnt asphalt, and the quiet pride of driving home without saying much at all, she climbed the stairs to her studio, laid out her brushes like a ritual, and stood in front of a blank canvas that didn’t feel like a threat anymore, just a door she’d finally remembered how to open.   Chapter 148 – Something About Driving Her name was Morgan Hale. Early thirties. Lean, compact build. Sun-creased skin from years at tracks rather than beaches. Brown hair pulled into a low, practical braid that stayed out of the way of helmets and headsets. No performative confidence—just the quiet certainty of someone who had earned the right not to explain herself. Morgan Hale had raced professionally in her twenties. Not spectacularly famous, not forgotten either. A handful of podiums. A reputation for clean lines, mechanical sympathy, and never wrecking equipment that wasn’t hers. Somewhere along the way, she’d realized she was better at shaping drivers than being one. That’s how she’d ended up here, summoned by an unusual caller with a specific request.  Homestead-Miami Speedway sat flat and exposed under a pale Florida sky, the kind that looked harmless until the heat crept up on you. Morgan stood near pit lane with a coffee that had gone cold, watching a silver Ford Fiesta roll through the gate. Manual. She noticed that immediately. She glanced at the car again as it parked. No stickers. No posturing. Clean. Stock. Slightly worn tires. A car that had been driven, not shown. Morgan smiled to herself. Theresa stepped out first, scanning the place with the practiced alertness of someone who noticed everything and commented on very little. Then Sally climbed out of the driver’s seat. Morgan waited. She didn’t approach clients. She let them come to her. Sally walked over, ponytail low, posture straight but not stiff. She didn’t extend her hand too fast. That mattered. “You must be Morgan,” Sally said. Morgan nodded once. “You’re on time. That’s a good start.” She glanced back at the Fiesta. “You really drive this?” Sally blinked. “Yes.” “No backup car?” Morgan asked. “No.” Morgan’s eyebrows lifted—just a fraction. “Huh.” She circled the Fiesta slowly, hands in her pockets. “You know there are people hunting these down now, right? Forums full of them. Buy them cheap, strip them, turn them into track toys. They’re disappearing.” Sally smiled faintly. “I like it the way it is.” Morgan stopped at the driver’s door and looked at her again, properly this time. “That’s not a fashionable answer.” “I’m not fashionable,” Sally replied. Morgan chuckled. A real one. Short. Unforced. “Good,” she said. “That filters out about seventy percent of my clients.” She nodded toward the car. “Keys.” Sally handed them over. “No clipboard interview,” Morgan added dryly, glancing at Theresa. “I don’t learn anything from forms.” Theresa inclined her head once and leaned back against the pit wall, hands in her pockets, letting the track speak for itself. Morgan slid into the passenger seat. “You’re driving.” Sally paused. “On the track?” “Yes.” “You’re not?” Morgan buckled in. “If I drive, you perform. I want to see how you think when you’re responsible.” Sally nodded, started the engine, and rolled out smoothly. Morgan didn’t speak at first. She listened. The clutch engagement. Clean. No panic. No showmanship. The throttle input was cautious but honest. Sally didn’t hunt for speed—she waited for it to come to her. They took the first lap slow. “Why manual?” Morgan asked casually. “I like knowing what the car is doing,” Sally answered, eyes forward. “Most people say control,” Morgan replied. “That’s not the same thing.” Sally didn’t argue. They reached the back straight. “Brake earlier,” Morgan said, calm. Sally did. No protest. “You don’t fight the wheel,” Morgan observed. “That’s rare.” “I was told the car always wins,” Sally said. Morgan glanced at her. “Who told you that?” “My body,” Sally answered simply. That earned her a longer look. They completed another lap. Morgan leaned back slightly. “You’re not here to prove anything, are you?” Sally shook her head. “I just want to learn how not to be stupid.” Morgan smiled. This time, wider. “Good,” she said. “Because I don’t teach stupid out of people. I teach skill into them.” She tapped the dashboard lightly. “This car? It’ll teach you patience. The race car will come later. But you don’t graduate just because you can afford horsepower.” Sally exhaled, tension she hadn’t noticed easing out of her shoulders. They rolled back into pit lane. Morgan unbuckled and paused before opening the door. “You’re accepted,” she said. “Not because you’re talented. Because you listen.” She stepped out, shut the door, and looked back at Sally through the open window. “And for the record,” Morgan added, smirking, “anyone who shows up here in a manual Fiesta when they could be driving anything else… usually turns out interesting.” That landed exactly where it should have. -- Morgan didn’t ask. She simply slid into the driver’s seat of the Fiesta, adjusted it once—forward a notch, back half a click—checked the mirrors, and depressed the clutch like she’d been driving this exact car all her life. Theresa was already settled in the paddock, laptop open, iced drink sweating onto the concrete table. She glanced up, saw Morgan take the wheel, clocked it as intentional, and went right back to work. No notes. No hovering. Trust. “Passenger seat,” Morgan said to Sally, already turning the key. The Fiesta came to life with its familiar, honest sound. No theatrics. No growl. Just ready. They rolled out of Homestead-Miami Speedway and onto surface streets, then toward the Florida Turnpike. Morgan drove smoothly, deliberately unspectacular, as if she were teaching by omission. Only once they merged did she start talking. “Rule one,” Morgan said, eyes forward. “Traffic isn’t random. It just feels that way when you’re not paying attention.” She pointed with two fingers, subtle. “White SUV three cars ahead. Watch him.” The SUV drifted left, then right, then braked late. “He’s exiting,” Morgan said calmly. “Didn’t signal yet, but he’s already decided.” Sure enough, the SUV cut across a lane to make the off-ramp. Sally exhaled. “How did you know?” “Micro-movements,” Morgan replied. “People telegraph everything. You just have to stop staring at the bumper in front of you.” An eighteen-wheeler loomed ahead, tall and steady. “Don’t sit next to trucks,” Morgan continued. “Either be behind where you can see, or ahead where you’re gone. Side-by-side is the danger zone.” She let the Fiesta hang back, then passed decisively, no rush, no drama. A pickup merged aggressively from the right, forcing a small brake input. Morgan didn’t flinch. “Impatient driver. Not angry. Late. Probably thinks everyone else is in his way.” She eased off, changed lanes, created space. “You don’t win by being right,” she said. “You win by not being there.” They cruised for a while. Traffic thickened. A mattress appeared on the shoulder, half-unwrapped. “Debris,” Morgan said, already adjusting. “Always scan shoulders. Anything unsecured is a future projectile.” Sally watched, absorbing. Morgan checked mirrors again. “Memorize the cars around you. Not all of them. Just the ones that matter. Who’s fast. Who’s sloppy. Who’s boxed in.” She paused. “Who’s toxic.” A cluster of cars surged and braked unpredictably ahead. “See that?” Morgan nodded. “That’s a bad pocket. Nothing good happens there.” She signaled early, exited smoothly, and guided the Fiesta into a rest area. They parked. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Morgan shut it off and finally looked at Sally. “Driving isn’t about dominance,” she said. “It’s about awareness and exits. When things go wrong, you don’t fight—you leave.” She handed the keys back. “Your turn. Same road. Same traffic. But now you know what to look for.” Sally took the keys, heart steady, mind sharp. This wasn’t racing. This was survival with grace. -- Sally didn’t rush when she took the driver’s seat. She was comfortable. Safe. She’d even chosen to wear her Goodnites under her loose jeans. She felt uneasy asking for bathroom breaks in new situations.  She managed her bathroom break as she adjusted the mirrors the way she always did—left a fraction wider than most instructors liked, rearview tilted just enough to catch movement rather than detail. She slid on her Ray-Bans, not for effect, just because the Florida light was sharp and honest. The warmth was comforting, and she could feel herself relax. If Morgan noticed, she didn’t comment. They pulled back onto the access road. Sally let the car warm into the moment, clutch smooth, throttle measured. No proving. No nerves. “Turnpike,” Morgan said simply. Sally nodded and guided them toward the on-ramp. Ahead, a line of eighteen-wheelers crawled along the right lane like a moving wall. Sally saw it early. She downshifted once, clean and unhurried, and let the revs rise—not aggressive, just ready. “Good,” Morgan said quietly, already reading the move. Sally accelerated decisively up the ramp, matching speed before the merge, then slightly more. She didn’t hesitate. She slipped into the lane ahead of the convoy, not cutting anyone off, not lingering where she didn’t belong. Space. Clean air. She exhaled only after it was done. “You know your car,” Morgan observed. Sally kept her eyes moving. Mirrors. Windshield. Side glance. Then the shoulder check—deliberate, physical, non-negotiable—before easing left. “I don’t trust mirrors,” Sally said. “Drivers ed drilled that into me. Mirrors lie. Heads don’t.” Morgan’s mouth twitched. Approval, unspoken. Traffic thickened near a busy interchange. Cars dove for exits late. Brake lights bloomed like warnings. Sally anticipated it. She eased off early, created a buffer, let two impatient drivers dart ahead into chaos she no longer occupied. “Patience isn’t passive,” Morgan said. “It’s strategic.” At the exit, Sally signaled early, slowed smoothly, and negotiated the off-ramp with the calm focus of someone already planning the next move. No sudden inputs. No surprises. She parked back at the track and shut the engine off. Silence settled. Morgan didn’t move right away. She studied Sally for a moment, then nodded once. “Collected,” she said. “Decisive. You don’t borrow confidence—you generate it.” Sally pulled off her sunglasses and smiled, small but real. Morgan opened the door. “Alright,” she said, stepping out. “Now we see what you do when the car has more to say back.” The BMW 135i waited in the paddock, patient, coiled. Sally followed—ready. -- They didn’t get in the car right away. Morgan led Sally through the paddock gate and onto the track on foot, the asphalt radiating heat through the soles of their shoes. The Florida sun pressed down without apology. No breeze. No shade. Just the long, flat ribbon of Homestead stretching out in front of them. “This is the part everyone wants to skip,” Morgan said, walking at an unhurried pace. “Which is exactly why we don’t.” Sally wiped her brow with the back of her hand and nodded. She felt the heat. The distance. The scale of it. The track wasn’t abstract anymore—it was physical, demanding attention just to exist on it. They stopped at the first braking zone. “Stand here,” Morgan said. Sally did. “Feel it,” Morgan continued. “Your eyes think the corner is farther away than it is. Your body doesn’t. This is where people brake late and panic.” She pointed to a faint darkening on the asphalt. “That’s rubber. That’s where people thought they could wait.” They walked on. Sally tried not to be too obvious as she hiked up her slightly sagging Goodnite. Morgan spoke as they moved, not lecturing, just explaining the way someone explains something that has lived in their bones for years. “Front-wheel drive forgives bad habits,” she said. “Lift mid-corner, the nose tucks in. Rear-wheel drive doesn’t forgive. It remembers.” Sally glanced at the BMW waiting in the paddock. Roll cage catching the light. Harnesses hanging loose, ready. “In the BMW,” Morgan continued, “brake in a straight line. Get your slowing done early. The car wants to be settled before you ask it to turn.” They stopped again, this time near the apex. “This isn’t about speed,” Morgan said. “It’s about stability. Strong platform. Calm inputs. You manage weight first—then power.” She traced an invisible arc with her foot. “Good line is boring. Late apex. Let the car breathe. If you’re fighting the wheel, you already lost.” Sally listened without interrupting, absorbing the rhythm of it. The heat. The silence between explanations. The way the track looked different from the ground—longer, flatter, less dramatic and more honest. “And throttle,” Morgan added, finally turning to face her. “In a rear-wheel-drive car, throttle is a conversation. Not a command. You feed it. You don’t dump it.” Sally nodded. “So… brake early, turn once, accelerate when the wheel is unwinding.” Morgan smiled slightly. “You’ve been paying attention.” They completed the full lap on foot, slow and deliberate. By the time they returned to the paddock, both were warm, sweat-darkened, a little tired. Sally tried not to waddle too much. Theresa could tell, she was sure, as her lone arched eyebrow peeked out from behind the laptop. Morgan stopped beside the BMW and rested a hand on the roof. “This car will teach you discipline,” she said. “It won’t save you like the Fiesta. But if you treat it right, it’ll give you more than you ask for.” Sally looked at the harnesses. The pedals. The steering wheel. “Good,” she said quietly. “I don’t want easy.” Morgan nodded once. “Helmet,” she said. “Now we drive.” “Bathroom break?”, Sally hesitated. Morgan chuckled. “Be quick”. -- They rolled out of the paddock without ceremony. Sally felt lighter – and drier. Glad to be her normal self, squeezed into the bucket seat. No engine bark. No dramatic throttle. Just the muted, mechanical honesty of the BMW easing onto the track, clutch smooth, revs low. Sally’s hands settled on the wheel instinctively—nine and three—no fidgeting, no death grip. “First lap is a handshake,” Morgan said from the passenger seat. “You don’t squeeze. You say hello.” Sally smiled faintly and kept the speed conservative. The car felt different immediately—longer nose, weight behind her instead of pulling her forward. She noticed it in the steering, in the way the chassis asked for patience rather than permission. “Eyes up,” Morgan said calmly. “Farther than you think.” Sally lifted her gaze. The corner opened sooner. The line smoothed out. They approached the first braking zone. “Brake early,” Morgan said. “Earlier than feels necessary.” Sally did. The BMW settled—no drama, no nose dive. Just planted. “Good,” Morgan murmured. “That’s respect.” They flowed through the corner, throttle barely cracked open on exit. “No rush,” Morgan added. “Let the car finish the sentence.” By the end of the first lap, Sally’s shoulders had dropped. Her breathing slowed. She wasn’t driving the track so much as letting it pass beneath her. They crossed the line again. “Second lap,” Morgan said. “Same pace. Now you listen back.” Sally nodded. She began noticing details: a subtle crown in the asphalt, a patch of darker rubber where grip would come later, the way the steering loaded gently mid-corner if she stayed patient. “Feel that?” Morgan asked as the rear settled under light throttle. “Yes,” Sally said. “It’s… waiting.” “Exactly,” Morgan replied. “Rear-wheel drive doesn’t beg. It waits to see if you deserve it.” They completed the second lap just as calmly as the first. No corrections. No wasted movement. When Sally guided the BMW back toward pit lane, Morgan didn’t rush to unbuckle. She sat there a moment, then nodded once. “You didn’t try to impress the car,” she said. “That’s why it behaved.” Sally exhaled, a quiet smile touching her lips. “Can we go faster later?” she asked. Morgan smirked. “Later,” she said. “You earn speed. You don’t ask for it.” -- Maybe tomorrow. For now, the engines were quiet, the heat clung to everything, and the kind of exhaustion that felt earned had settled into Sally’s limbs. She was almost bouncing when she slid back into her Ford Fiesta, sunglasses on, ponytail tightened, hands light on the wheel. Morgan had already disappeared into the paddock, Theresa was packing up her laptop, and the day felt like it had been stamped complete. “Alright,” Theresa said, buckling in beside her, amusement in her voice. “Before you launch us into orbit—focus.” Sally laughed, breathy and bright. “I am focused. Just… very happy.” “That’s allowed,” Theresa said. “Ecstatic driving is not.” Sally nodded, visibly reining herself in as she pulled out, smooth, measured, exactly as she had been on track. The Fiesta hummed contentedly, as if proud of her. They drove back toward Coral Gables under a clean, generous Florida sky. Palm trees blurred past. Traffic was cooperative for once. Sally handled it all with quiet confidence—no rush, no hesitation, just deliberate movement. When she merged, she checked her shoulder. When a driver crept too close, she adjusted without comment. Theresa watched, satisfied. “No padding under those jeans?”, she teased.  Sally turned slightly red. “Not now. I took it off before the track”. “You’re a funny kid”, remarked Theresa. “You know that?” Sally shrugged as the drove. “Solidarity, safety, practicality… Three good reasons. Truckers use plastic water bottles”, she chuckled.  “It is safe and practical”, Theresa admitted. “But you don’t need to mind about solidarity. Not with me, kiddo”. At a long light near home, Jana’s car pulled alongside them. Jana glanced over, unreadable as always. Theresa gave her a small, unmistakable thumbs up. Jana studied Sally for half a second longer, then nodded. Once. Serious. Approved. At the house, Sally parked carefully, shut the engine off, and sat there for a beat, letting the day settle. “Good work,” Theresa said simply. “Thanks,” Sally replied, softer now. “Really.” Inside, Jana was already gathering her things. She paused at the door and looked back at Sally. “This week,” she said, “your priority is driver training. We’ll rearrange schoolwork. You’ll keep up, but focus where you are.” Sally nodded. No argument. No relief either—just resolve. “Okay,” she said. Jana inclined her head, satisfied. Theresa waved once as they left, the door closing behind them. Sally stood in the quiet house for a moment, sunlight pooling on the floor, the echo of engines still in her body. Tomorrow could wait. -- The house was quiet when Sally stepped inside. Not the comfortable kind yet—more like a held breath. Her parents weren’t home, and the silence followed her down the hallway, settling on her shoulders. She peeled out of her jeans and T-shirt without ceremony and tugged on old leggings, the ones stretched soft at the knees, and a faded gray shirt with paint stains that had long ago stopped apologizing for themselves. It felt like permission. Barefoot again, she slipped through the kitchen and out toward the garage. The Fiesta sat exactly where she’d left it, clean, squared, obedient in the first slot. She didn’t go in. Instead, she opened the side door and climbed the narrow steps, heart ticking a little faster with each one. The studio greeted her like a promise. White walls angled with the roofline, the geometry of the space honest and unpretentious. Small windows looked out over the driveway and the canal beyond, where water caught the last scraps of daylight. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly along one wall, labeled in her own careful handwriting. Canvases leaned there too, wrapped and waiting, their silence louder than clutter. Sketches. Ideas. Things half-born. She let her bag fall to the floor and moved on instinct. Easel unfolded. Canvas lifted, fresh and unmarked, its whiteness almost intimidating. She lined up brushes by size, cleaned the ones that needed it, set out her paints in a logical order that only made sense to her. She wiped a surface that didn’t need wiping. Adjusted the easel twice. Then once more. It wasn’t procrastination. It was ritual. She hadn’t painted in months—not really. She’d drawn, sketched, shaded in margins and notebooks, but painting demanded something else. Time. Stillness. A willingness to let things go wrong. And lately, everything in her life had felt too important to risk messing up. The itch was there, though. Persistent. Insistent. So many things wanted out of her hands and onto a surface big enough to hold them. Motion. Speed. Water. Roads. Faces she hadn’t planned to remember. Not tonight. Tonight was about making space. She stepped back, arms folded, studying the blank canvas as if it might blink first. The light hummed overhead. Outside, darkness crept in without asking. One by one, the windows turned black, reflecting her instead of the world beyond. She didn’t notice how much time passed. Then—low, unmistakable—the rumble of the BMW M5 rolled into the driveway below. Controlled. Familiar. Home. Sally crossed to the window and watched her parents pull in, the car settling beside the entrance like it belonged there. She pressed her lips together, a small, private smile forming. The canvas stayed white. But the room was ready. -- Sally found her mother already settled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked under her, Kindle balanced lightly in one hand. The reading lamp cast a warm pool of light around her, softening the room. “Hi, honey,” Bridget said without looking up at first, then smiling when she did. “I saw the lights on in your studio. I figured you were… in your head. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Sally leaned against the doorway for a second. “You’re very respectful of my inner chaos,” she said. From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of plates being shuffled. Adrian lifted one hand in greeting, an apron tied loosely around his waist. “Is dad really going to cook?” Sally asked, eyes widening in exaggerated concern. “Define cook,” Bridget replied dryly. She patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit. He’s reheating pizza. Nobody panic.” “Let me change,” Sally said. “I smell like garage and paint fumes.” “Fair,” Bridget agreed. When Sally came back down, she was in soft pajama pants and an old Key West T-shirt, hair still slightly damp from washing her hands upstairs. She collapsed beside her mother with a sigh that came from somewhere deep and tired. Without thinking, her hand drifted to Bridget’s stomach, resting there gently, almost reverently. Bridget laughed under her breath and placed her own hand over Sally’s. “Not yet. I barely feel him myself.” Sally’s eyes lit up. “You feel something?” “Movement,” Bridget said, searching for the right word. “Not kicks. More like… swimming. Or bubbles.” Sally smiled, then slowly withdrew her hand, resettling herself against the cushions. “You’re not exhausted though? Like… wiped?” Bridget shook her head. “No. I’m behaving. Vitamins, iron, all the boring responsible things. I get tired, but it’s normal tired.” “You went to work today,” Sally said, half statement, half accusation. “I did,” Bridget admitted. “The foundation’s almost ready to launch. Once the first projects are set in motion, it’ll run smoothly. By April, I can slow down properly.” “Next month,” Sally murmured. “That’s fast.” “It is,” Bridget said. “Which means you’ll need to prepare a speech. This time, for real.” Sally made a face, then paused. The knot she’d felt the last time that word had come up didn’t tighten this time. “I’ll ask Priya to help,” she said. “She knows how to make words behave.” From behind them, Adrian appeared with a pizza box and set it on the low table. “She’s our PR director,” he said. “She’d better know how to make words behave.” He returned with a glass of wine for himself and a carefully garnished mocktail for Sally, setting it in front of her with exaggerated formality. Sally raised an eyebrow. “Pizza and mocktails. I see we’re aiming for elegance.” “We adapt,” Adrian said, sitting down at last. “It’s called growth.” They ate like that—casual, unguarded. Pizza slices folded, knees brushing, the day finally draining out of them. Outside, the air was still warm, the pool lights reflecting softly against the dark water. Later, when the plates were empty and the conversation had thinned into comfortable quiet, Sally leaned back and sighed. -- The skid pad sat at the far end of the facility, a wide circle of polished asphalt that shimmered under the Florida sun. It looked harmless enough—empty, flat, almost boring. Sally eyed it with suspicion as Morgan rolled the BMW 135i to a stop at the edge. “That thing?” Sally asked. “That’s it?” Morgan shut the engine off and turned to her. “That’s where confidence goes to die. And then gets rebuilt properly.” Sally laughed nervously. “You’re comforting.” Morgan got out first. “Watch before you do. Always.” They switched seats. Morgan tightened her harness with the same economy of movement Sally had come to recognize—no wasted effort, no drama. She glanced over. “Rule one,” Morgan said, starting the engine. “The car will slide. That’s the point. If you try to stop the slide before it happens, you’re already behind.” She rolled onto the pad, building speed gradually. The car felt calm at first. Too calm. Then Morgan added throttle. The rear stepped out without warning. Sally sucked in a sharp breath. “Whoa—!” Morgan didn’t flinch. Hands steady. Eyes up. A measured lift, a whisper of countersteer. The car rotated, arced wide, then settled back into a controlled drift that felt impossibly smooth. “You see that?” Morgan said, calm as if narrating a documentary. “I didn’t fight it. I let it talk.” She did it again. Faster this time. The BMW snapped harder, the rear swinging wide. Sally grabbed the door handle. “You’re going to spin—!” Morgan laughed. “Relax.” The car rotated almost a full circle, tires spinning, then came back in line as if on command. They stopped. Sally stared at her. “That was… violent.” Morgan unbuckled. “No. That was honest.” They swapped seats again. “No,” Sally said immediately, shaking her head. “Nope. Absolutely not.” Morgan leaned against the roof. “You survived a plane crash. This is just geometry.” “That plane didn’t try to kill me twice in a row,” Sally muttered. Morgan crouched to eye level. “Listen to me. Losing control isn’t the danger. Panicking is. This pad teaches you what panic feels like—so you don’t bring it onto the road.” Sally swallowed. Then nodded. “Okay. But if I spin—” “You will,” Morgan said. “And you’ll be fine.” Sally eased onto the pad. First lap slow. Second lap a little faster. “More throttle,” Morgan instructed from the passenger seat. “I am giving it throttle.” “More.” Sally pressed harder. The rear broke loose instantly. “Oh my—!” “Eyes up!” Morgan snapped. “Don’t look at the cones. Look where you want to go.” Sally’s hands went rigid. The wheel felt alive, tugging, resisting. “Countersteer. Smooth. Don’t freeze.” The car spun. They came to a stop facing the wrong direction. Sally’s heart hammered. She was breathing hard. “I died.” Morgan checked the mirrors. “You stalled. That’s all.” They went again. This time Sally anticipated it. The slide still startled her, but she didn’t lock up. She corrected too much—then too little. “Feel the weight,” Morgan said. “It transfers before it moves. Trust that.” Third run. The slide came. Sally countersteered, lifted gently, and—miracle of miracles—the car straightened. She burst out laughing. “I did it!” Morgan grinned. “Again.” They spent the next hour spinning, correcting, laughing, stalling, restarting. By the end, Sally wasn’t afraid of the slide anymore. She expected it. Then came the cones. Slalom first. Tight. Technical. Morgan walked the line with her beforehand, heat radiating off the asphalt. “Slow is smooth,” Morgan said. “Smooth is fast.” Sally threaded the BMW through the cones, clumsy at first, then cleaner. Her hands loosened. Her eyes stayed ahead. She clipped one cone and winced. Morgan shrugged. “That cone’s job was to die.” They finished with a figure-eight, combining braking, throttle, and recovery. When they finally rolled back into the paddock, Sally shut the engine off and sat there, hands trembling slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. She pulled off her helmet and looked at Morgan, eyes bright. “That was terrifying.” Morgan nodded. “Good.” “And amazing.” “Also good.” Sally leaned back, exhaling. “I don’t think I’ll ever panic in a car again.” Morgan smiled, already unbuckling. “That’s the point. Control isn’t about never losing it. It’s about knowing what to do when you do.” -- By midweek, something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not in a movie-montage way. But quietly, unmistakably. Sally no longer drove like someone reacting to traffic. She drove like someone reading it. On the Turnpike, she stopped fighting the flow and started joining it, easing into gaps before they fully formed, backing out of situations before they grew sharp. Eighteen-wheelers no longer rattled her—not because they were smaller now, but because she understood them. Morgan had made sure of that. One afternoon, under the blistering Homestead sun, Morgan led her past the paddock to a parked race hauler. A massive orange Peterbilt tractor and trailer, all chrome and presence. The driver—older, calm, amused—nodded once and pointed at the door. “Climb up.” Sally hesitated for half a breath, then grabbed the handle and hauled herself up the steps. Morgan followed, closing the door behind them with a solid, final thunk. The noise of the track fell away instantly, replaced by a padded, insulated hush that felt unreal after the heat and wind outside. Sally stopped short. “Oh,” she breathed. The cab was enormous. Not just tall—deep. A compact apartment wrapped around a driver’s seat. A narrow double bed tucked behind the seats, neatly made. Cabinets along the walls. A small refrigerator humming quietly beneath a counter. A microwave. Hooks with jackets. A side window with a curtain pulled halfway back. “You could… live in here,” Sally said, turning slowly, trying to take it all in. The driver chuckled, low and amused. “Kid, I do.” She looked at him, genuinely startled. “Like—full time?” He nodded. “Three weeks out of four. Sometimes longer. You learn to pack light. And you learn where everything is.” He tapped the dash affectionately. “This becomes home.” Sally absorbed that in silence. The scale of it all—the height, the weight, the idea of carrying your life inside a machine this big—settled into her chest. Morgan watched her closely. “Okay,” she said at last. “Now the important part.” She gestured toward the driver’s seat. “Slide over.” Sally obeyed, easing into the chair. The seat swallowed her. It was higher than she expected—higher than anything she’d ever driven. Her feet barely brushed the floor. “Don’t touch anything yet,” Morgan said. “Just look.” Sally leaned forward slightly. Sally scanned the mirrors. Forward. Side. Down. Her confidence wavered. “There’s… a lot I don’t see.” Morgan smiled slightly. “Exactly.” She moved Sally’s head gently, pointing. “Blind spot here. And here. And here. He can’t stop fast. He can’t swerve. He can’t save you if you surprise him.” The driver nodded. “Best thing you can do is be predictable.” Sally swallowed. Something in her chest loosened. It wasn’t fear she felt. It was relief. That day, something old finally let go—the sharp edge of February, the moment that had never quite resolved. Understanding replaced the question marks. On the road after that, she drove with intention. On the track, with obsession. The BMW 135i became her classroom. Morgan rode shotgun every lap, harness tight, hands relaxed, letting silence do the teaching. Sally chased consistency, not speed—same braking point, same turn-in, same exit. When she missed a line, Morgan didn’t scold. “Again,” she’d say. Sometimes she let Sally struggle. Sometimes she interrupted. “Too early on throttle. Let the car finish talking first.” “Brake in a straight line. You’re asking the front tires to lie for you.” “Good. That one was honest.” Sally absorbed it all. Stubbornly. Joyfully. She loved the BMW—not the power, but the conversation. The way it told the truth if she listened. She still adored her Fiesta, but now her mind wandered ahead: an old BMW someday. Built slowly. Purposefully. Helmet. Shoes. Gear that meant intent. At the end of the week, Morgan leaned against the pit wall and handed her a bottle of water. “You don’t rush,” she said. “That’s rare.” Sally nodded, flushed, quiet. Driving home with Theresa, the sun low and golden, Sally barely spoke. Her hands rested lightly on the wheel, eyes calm, thoughts busy but settled. Theresa glanced over once, smiling to herself. Whatever Sally had learned this week, it wasn’t just about driving. -- It was supposed to be a normal Saturday. No schedule. No appointments. No alarms that mattered. Sally still woke up at six.  Her body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. Habit pulled her awake before the sun had fully decided what it was doing. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house, the faint sound of palm fronds moving outside. No urgency. No one calling her name. That alone felt novel. She gave up on pretending to sleep. Her diaper, noticeably wet, crinkled as she slid out of bed and into the bathroom. A quick shower, hair tied back, leggings and a light top. By the time she stepped outside, the air was cool enough to feel intentional, not accidental. Early Florida had a softness to it that never lasted long. Solano Prado stretched out ahead of her, still mostly asleep. She jogged easily, letting her pace settle on its own. Just over a mile to the gatehouse at the end of the road—the beginning, really, of everything beyond. She already knew the landmarks: the bend where the banyan roots pushed up the pavement, the stretch where the canal opened briefly into view, the house with the perpetually immaculate hedges that smelled faintly of citrus. She wasn’t the only one awake. A woman walking two golden retrievers nodded at her. A woman in a visor raised a hand without breaking stride. Quiet acknowledgment, no curiosity. She liked that. Old Cutler was growing familiar in a way Zürichberg never quite had. Zürichberg had history, pride, generations layered neatly on top of each other. Here, there was something looser. Wealth, yes—but expressed in wildly different dialects. Some houses were almost shy, set back behind greenery, efficient and understated. Others were unapologetic. Driveways lined like showrooms: Ferraris nose to nose with Lamborghinis, a McLaren parked like it had just wandered in by accident. Sally found it vaguely amusing, the way some people needed their success to be visible from the street. She finished the last stretch toward home, breathing steady, legs warm and cooperative. A black Ford Fusion rolled up beside her, matching her pace for a moment. “Fancy a lift?” Jana called through the open window, sunglasses already on, braids pulled back neatly. Sally glanced over, grinning despite herself. She shook her head and waved her on. “See you at the house,” she called, a little breathless but smiling. Jana laughed, tapped the horn once, and accelerated smoothly away. Sally kept jogging, unbothered. Normal, she thought, didn’t mean quiet. It just meant hers. -- “Aren’t you supposed to have a day off?” Sally frowned, lifting the cold bottle of mineral water and taking a long drink. “My stress level literally spikes when I see you on a weekend,” she added, half-pouting as she wiped her face with a towel still warm from the dryer. Jana sat perched on one of the kitchen stools, one ankle hooked around the rung, coffee cradled between her hands like it was sacred. “Relax,” she said calmly. “This is not an ambush. Short chat. Quick review of your week. Then you’re released back into the wild.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “You say that, but you’re here with coffee and that look.” “That look,” Jana replied mildly, “is concern. You’ve been absent for a while. Physically, emotionally, geographically. I don’t want you thinking I just… forgot about you.” Sally softened despite herself. “And,” Jana continued, tilting her head, “Theresa dragged me into this. Says I’m officially assigned to mentor you into being a good big sister.” Sally froze mid-cap twist. “Wait. What?” She frowned. “Does Theresa think I’m, like… secretly awful? Jealous? Bitter? One emotional meltdown away from becoming a villain?” Jana snorted. “Theresa thinks you’re a star. I’m the boring add-on, remember?” She took a sip of coffee. “Besides, I’m the youngest of my family. My oldest siblings are twenty years older than me. I’ve lived through the whole ‘surprise baby’ ecosystem.” Sally blinked, recalibrating. “Oh.” A pause. “That actually explains a lot.” She glanced down at herself—sweaty, hair half escaping its tie, towel slung over one shoulder. “Okay. If you’ll let me shower quickly, I’ll come back down in a more human form.” Jana lifted an eyebrow, already sliding her tablet out of its case. “Then we review your week.” Sally planted her hands on her hips, mock-defiant. “And then,” she said firmly, “you’re staying. Friend stuff. Pool. TV. Zero productivity. Possibly snacks.” Jana’s expression softened into a genuine smile. “Deal.” Sally turned toward the stairs, already lighter. -- In the end, Jana’s talk of a “review” turned out to be mostly theater. Once Sally had showered and reemerged—cut-offs over a bikini, soft T-shirt hanging loose, hair still damp at the ends—any pretense of structure dissolved completely. The kitchen filled with the low, comforting sounds of normal life: the grinder, the kettle, the toaster clicking down. Sally moved easily between counter and cabinet, assembling coffee mugs and slicing bagels like this was exactly where she belonged. Jana watched from the counter, amused. “You definitely have Connecticut blood,” she said. “January. Cut-offs.” Sally shrugged without looking up. “Pool’s heated. Sun’s warm. Those are facts. You can’t argue with physics.” “I can argue with common sense,” Jana replied dryly. “But I didn’t bring a swimsuit.” Sally finally turned, eyeing her. “I have several. Still new. Tags-on new. They’ll fit you.” Jana grimaced. “You’re impossible to say no to.” “That’s only when I’m right,” Sally said, sliding the bagels onto a tray and adding cream cheese with careful symmetry. “And I’m right. It’ll be nice.” She lifted the tray. “I’m taking this up to the master suite first. Then I’ll show you my never-used, aggressively modest bathing suits.” She emphasized the last words solemnly. Jana laughed and followed her up the stairs. “Your parents are lucky, you know. Not every teenager brings breakfast to her parents in bed.” Sally snorted. “Not every teenager has newlywed parents who forget what time it is.” They disappeared upstairs, the morning already warm, unhurried, and quietly theirs. -- Jana stood at the edge of the pool, t-shirt over her one-piece, toes curled slightly over the pale stone, arms crossed as she watched Sally stretch once, casually, like this was nothing more than an extension of her morning jog. Sally glanced back. “You coming, or are you supervising?” “I’m observing,” Jana corrected. “There’s a difference.” Sally rolled her eyes, took three quick steps, and dove cleanly—no splash, just a neat slice into the water. She surfaced a moment later, hair slicked back, grinning. “Water’s perfect.” Jana exhaled, muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “show-off,” and shrugged out of her T-shirt. She climbed onto the edge, mimicked Sally’s posture with exaggerated seriousness, and dove. The splash was bigger. Not disastrous—but definitely louder. When Jana surfaced, pushing wet braids out of her face, Sally was already treading water nearby, trying not to laugh. “Stylish,” Sally said diplomatically. Jana wiped water from her eyes. “I committed. That’s what matters.” They drifted toward the shallow end, the morning sun glinting off the water, both smiling—normal, unguarded, and exactly where they needed to be. -- Jana leaned back against the pool wall, elbows hooked over the edge, letting the water hold her up. “You know you already have admirers at church,” she said casually. “Consuelo practically lights up when she says your name.” Sally snorted and slicked her wet hair back with both hands. “She’s eighty. And I caught her washing dishes after potluck. She looked exhausted.” “You didn’t just help her,” Jana pointed out. “You washed everything. Platters, serving spoons, trays. Half those people usually take theirs home.” “They were there,” Sally shrugged, treading water. “Soap was there. Seemed inefficient not to.” Jana tilted her head, studying her. “You say that like it’s normal.” Sally dipped under briefly, resurfaced, blinking water from her lashes. “It should be.” Jana smiled faintly. “It’s a good church. I like it. Mixed crowd. Latinos, Black families, Haitians… even some white folks,” she added with a dry grin. Sally laughed. “Yeah. I think the Weisses doubled the white demographic overnight.” Jana chuckled. “Teaching’s solid. Music could use a little courage, though.” “Oh?” Sally teased. “You volunteering to grab the mic and shake things up?” Jana floated onto her back, arms spread. “Maybe once they trust I won’t set the place on fire.” Sally swam a slow arc around her, water rippling lazily. “You do have that ‘don’t test me’ posture.” “Occupational hazard.” “But,” Sally added, stopping in front of her, “you’re an angel.” Jana laughed outright. “Sure. Deep, deep down.” Sally grew quiet for a moment, then said softly, “You know… the first time we met. At Chick-fil-A. I knew you were real. No act. No pretending. You helped me. You stayed.” Jana’s smile faded into something warmer. “You didn’t make that hard.” “And now you’re here,” Sally finished, gesturing around them. “Sharing a pool with me on a random Saturday.” Jana swallowed, then shrugged lightly. “You have a way of making people feel seen. Taller than they are.” Sally shook her head. “You’re already tall. Just… cool.” Jana nodded once. “I’ll take cool.” They drifted to the pool steps and sat there side by side, water lapping at their calves. Sally reached for the sweating glasses of iced tea, handed one over. The January sun warmed their shoulders, the house quiet behind them, the moment easy and unforced—nothing dramatic, nothing heavy. Just enough. -- Sally leaned back on her elbows, letting the sun dry her shoulders. “Where’s Theresa today?” she asked, absently tracing a ripple in the pool with her toes. Jana exhaled slowly. “Sore back. She’s taking it easy.” Sally glanced over. “From what?” “From trying to live three lives at once,” Jana said dryly. “She’s been everywhere since Christmas. San Diego with her grandmother, catching up with friends, visiting Marines she hadn’t seen since before the accident. I think she’s been making up for lost time… and forgetting she’s still human.” Sally nodded, thoughtful. Then, more quietly, “How’s her nerve injury?” Jana turned to face her fully. “She doesn’t talk about it much, does she?” Sally shook her head. “She doesn’t want me worrying. But you live together. I figured… you’d know. And I do care.” Jana’s expression softened. “I know you do.” She paused, then said gently, “She’s made progress. She’s back in regular underwear during the day. At night she goes into what she calls ‘cute mode’—just like you.” Jana winked, making it light. “And even that’s improving.” Sally let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Good,” she said softly. “Thank you for telling me.” “Anytime,” Jana replied. Then, with a small nudge of her knee, “But next Saturday, you’re dragging her here. Pool, sun, no excuses. You look up to her a lot—but don’t forget, she adores you.” Sally smiled faintly. “Maybe I will.” The glass panel slid open behind them with a soft swish, and Bridget stepped out onto the terrace, one hand shading her eyes as she squinted at the brightness. “Hi, girls,” she called. Sally laughed. “Awake already, Mom? It’s not even midday yet.” Bridget shook her head, amused, as she made her way toward them, the morning settling easily around the pool. -- The pool session dissolved naturally into hunger, the kind that came from sun, water, and too much talking. Adrian appeared on the terrace in sunglasses and an apron that looked suspiciously new, carrying a plate of raw hamburger patties like a man approaching a controlled experiment. “So,” he announced, setting the plate down near the grill, “apparently today I learn to barbecue.” Sally climbed out of the pool and wrapped herself in a towel, dripping across the stone tiles. “You don’t learn barbecue,” she corrected. “You survive it.” Jana followed, shaking water from her braids. “Rule one,” she added, “don’t burn them.” Adrian frowned at the grill, then at the patties. “That seems… subjective.” Sally rolled her eyes and took command. “Okay. You’re on meat duty. Jana and I will assemble. Mom—” she turned toward the chaise where Bridget was reclining, mocktail in hand, sunglasses firmly on “—you are on mandatory rest.” Bridget lifted her glass slightly. “I accept my crown.” “Doctor’s orders,” Sally added solemnly. “No standing. No flipping. No opinions.” “Hey,” Adrian protested lightly, lighting the grill. “I’m allowed opinions.” “You’re allowed supervision,” Sally said sweetly. “From me.” Jana laughed as she handed Sally a cutting board. “This family runs on committees.” They worked in easy rhythm. Jana sliced tomatoes and onions with neat efficiency. Sally split buns, lined them up, and debated cheese placement like it was a strategic decision. “Cheese goes on at the end,” she said, decisive. “Otherwise it melts into sadness.” Adrian poked one patty uncertainly. “How do I know when to flip?” “When it stops sticking,” Sally replied without looking up. “If you force it, it tears. Like life.” Adrian stared at her. “When did you become wise?” “Accidentally,” Jana said. “Side effect.” Bridget chuckled from her chair. “I raised this.” The burgers sizzled. One flared briefly, and Adrian jumped back. “It’s alive,” he said. “It’s fine,” Sally said calmly, handing him the tongs. “Control the flame. Don’t panic. Same rule as driving.” Jana nodded approvingly. “She’s not wrong.” When the burgers were finally declared edible—miraculously unburnt—they assembled them at the outdoor table. Lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese, pickles, sauces debated and layered with ceremony. Sally handed the first finished burger to her mother. “Queen’s portion.” Bridget smiled, touched. “I feel very taken care of.” “You are,” Sally said simply. “Growing a human. Very demanding job.” Adrian raised his burger in a mock toast. “To not setting the house on fire.” “And to rest,” Jana added. “And to burgers that survived,” Sally finished. They ate barefoot, sun-warmed, laughing easily. The grill clicked softly as it cooled. Bridget sipped her mocktail like royalty, Adrian chewed proudly, and Sally leaned back in her chair, satisfied—not just with the food, but with the strange, lovely normality of it all.

The kitty has its mommy officially! 🤣 Good chapter, hoping to see more of them working together again soon too!

This may sound weird  But does anyone have good food options for really bad smelling gas / farts Have you ever eaten something and the totally regretted it gave you a bad case of gas. 

This has been probably asked before but does anyone else when wearing diapers on occasions ( 24/7 wears i know wouldn't have deep and better sleep patterns when wearing. I have found even in summer here in Sydney Australia I am sleeping much better at night padded and feeling way more like I have deep rem sleep wearing. Haven't achieved night wetting yet but trying.

"Alright sweetie do you want it in a bottle or sippy cup?" Evelyn asked as she gently picked up her daughter and gave her a kiss on the cheek, also making sure to pick up the Pooh Bear toy and gave it to her.