Trading Post

Currently in a Bambino Teddy.   Put this one on after my morning shower, which at this point, was about 7 hours ago.  I still have a little mileage left in it.  But I'll likely be changing into my nighttime diaper soon.  

Sorry, a mental aberration  Boxers 

Chapter One Hundred & Seventeen: Part Two The sky stretched bright and clear above the city, pale December sunlight spilling across palm trees and red brick roads while church bells somewhere far off rang lazy through the late morning air. Christmas decorations still clung to neighborhoods in expensive restraint—gold ribbons, white lights wrapped carefully around oak trunks, wreaths hanging proud against oversized front doors.   And cutting quietly through it all—   A sleek metallic graphite luxury sedan rolled through the winding streets of one of Jacksonville’s wealthier neighborhoods. The kind of car that moved more than drove. Leather interior. Soft ambient lighting glowing faint blue beneath polished trim. Leo sat in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing despite himself.   Nervous energy. Excited energy.   A weird mix of both. Because he hadn’t seen Paul in person since— Before everything. Before the hospital. Before school turned ugly. Before people stopped whispering and started laughing. His fingers adjusted the strap of the backpack slung over his left shoulder. Script binder inside. A notebook. Two pencils. And, shoved awkwardly into one pocket because his mom insisted, a small bag of Paul’s favorite sour gummies.   Just in case.   The car slowed. Then slowed again. And Leo blinked.   “Holy…”   His voice faded. The house came into view. Massive. Mediterranean-inspired architecture stretching wide beneath the Florida sun like something out of a movie set. Cream stone exterior. Towering windows reflecting blue sky. Ivy curling subtly around portions of the façade like the place had history despite its obvious wealth. Palm trees stood tall along the circular drive, framing the sprawling estate while carefully trimmed hedges and rich green landscaping wrapped around the property with almost impossible precision. Water glimmered faintly from a stone fountain near the entrance. The place somehow managed to feel both grand and lived in.   Leo actually said it aloud.   “Wow.”   From the driver’s seat, his mother let out a soft laugh.   “Told you,” she said, easing the car toward the front. “Movie studio people's money.”   Leo snorted quietly.   “Still weird.”   “No kidding.” She glanced over at him warmly. “Text me twenty minutes before rehearsal ends, okay? I’ll head back over.”   “I know, Mom.”   “And be polite.”   Leo sighed dramatically.   “I’m always polite.”   She gave him the look.   “You once called Mrs. Callahan’s dog emotionally manipulative.”   “It was,” Leo muttered.   That got a laugh. Then her expression softened slightly. Her eyes flicking back toward the house.   “Just…” she said quieter, “be a good friend or fellow actor today, kay?”   Leo paused. Something inside him settling. Because underneath the teasing— He knew what she meant. Paul. And then what happened to him for defending Paul. How he took that shot to the guy, fell inward until those two held him down and promised a broken rib or more if he didn’t “piss” himself. So he did, nobody cared, and everybody still insulted the diaper boy. But he knew his parents fear and worry about him, don’t be a hero.   “Yeah,” Leo said softly. “I got it.”   He grabbed his backpack. Opened the door. Stepped out. The warm December air hit immediately. He adjusted the rounded glasses sitting comfortably across his face, pushing dark hair away from his forehead. At fourteen, Leo carried an effortless kind of charm he never really understood he had. His soft brown hair parted naturally, slightly messy in that intentionally unintentional way teenage boys somehow mastered. Warm eyes behind rounded lenses. Easy smile. Today he wore a cream knit sweater layered beneath a charcoal denim jacket, paired with dark semi-expensive slim-fit jeans—designer without trying too hard—and clean white sneakers. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, took a steadying breath, and knocked.   Inside, Paul sat on the bottom steps of the staircase, heart hammering in his chest as he stared at the closed front door. The early morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting long, soft shadows across the polished hardwood floors. Gone were any visible traces of his little side from breakfast. His appearance was carefully curated, a deliberate step back into the “big” version of himself he so desperately wanted to reclaim. Heart hammering. Tracker glowing steady green against his wrist. The front door suddenly felt much bigger than it had five minutes ago.   Too big. Too final. Too real.   Because texting Leo? Easy. Safe. But this? Leo standing on the other side of that door? Seeing him? Actually seeing him? That was different. Paul’s fingers pressed briefly against the denim covering his thigh. The faintest crinkle answered underneath. Small. Subtle. Hidden. But there. And somehow— Instead of shame? Something closer to confidence settled in. Because an hour ago— Things had felt different. An hour ago, fresh from the shower, towel hanging low around his waist, he had stepped out of the bathroom through his walk-in closet and back into his “big boy” room. Instead of the usual thick nighttime diaper waiting, instead—he stopped cold. There. Folded neatly atop the comforter.   Something different. Something familiar.   His step-ins.   The slimmer kind. The last time he wore them had been— Gym. Last Friday. Before everything exploded. For a second he’d just stared. Confused. Then— Smiled. Because his parents had thought of this. Thought of him. Thought about what feeling normal might mean. Paul had picked them up carefully. Almost reverently. Plastic pants laid beside them for backup. Practical. Supportive. But less.   Less obvious. Less heavy. And suddenly— Breathing felt easier.   The mirror afterward had felt kinder too.  Add in a white Nikie compression shirt hugging gently beneath dark designer jeans. Dark enough to sharpen his frame. Loose enough to sit comfortably. Belt threaded clean through the loops. No awkward bulging. No obvious giveaway. Even the faint sound beneath movement felt quieter. Smaller. Manageable. For an extra boost of confidence, Paul had reached into the closet and slipped on a ruby-red athletic vest with the subtle Florida Panthers logo on the upper right side. Nothing loud, just enough to make him feel like the sports guy he used to be. He’d stood there for nearly a full minute afterward. Studying himself.  The scar along his face. He ran a hand through his hair, styling it into the neat, modern cut he had seen online—sides faded, top swept back with a bit of volume. He looked like any other eighteen-year-old getting ready to hang out with a friend. No one would know. His wrist tracker glowed a steady, peaceful green, a quiet reassurance that his body—and his mind—were holding steady.   Knock knock.   Paul blinked. Back to now. Back to the stairs. Back to reality. His stomach flipped. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. Because this mattered. Amber’s voice echoed faintly in memory: He got bullied defending you,Paul you do have people who care about you as you not anything else.   That hit different now. Paul took a breath. Slow. Deep. Then another. Before standing. Hopping down the last two stairs carefully. One hand brushing instinctively against the railing. The other tightening briefly at his side. He reached the door.   Paused.   Tracker still green. Heart not so much. One breath. Two. Then— His hand wrapped around the handle. Turned. The door opened. Leo stood on the other side, backpack slung casually over his left shoulder, warm smile already spreading across his face.   “Hey, man,” Leo said, voice easy and friendly. “Ready to run some lines?”   Paul met his eyes, the small smile on his face carrying both fear and determination. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt ready to step back onto the stage—not just for the play, but for himself.   “Yeah,” Paul replied, voice steady. “I’m ready.”   Paul stepped back. “Come in.”   Leo entered, and the house opened around him in a way that made his expression crack before he could control it. The living room stretched wide beneath high ceilings and warm beams, sunlight pouring in through tall windows that made the polished floors glow. The furniture looked expensive but lived-in—soft throws, framed photos, signs that real people used the space rather than just staged it. Past the living room, the kitchen gleamed with marble and brushed metal, oversized without feeling cold. Somewhere deeper inside the house soft instrumental jazz floated quietly through hidden speakers.   “Dude,” Leo murmured.   Paul didn’t hear him. Or if he did, it didn’t register.   His eyes were too busy scanning. His gaze darted across every surface, scanning for any stray evidence of his little side—a forgotten diaper, a pacifier clip, an action figure, or a bottle. Anything that would drag the hidden part of his life into this room before he was ready.   Nothing.   His parents had helped him put it all away. Had watched him lock the second bedroom from the outside. Had let him see the lock turn, not because they were ashamed, but because they understood that privacy could be a kind of mercy. Paul exhaled before he realized he’d been holding his breath.   Leo glanced over. “You good?”   “Yeah,” Paul said quickly, then tried again, more honestly. “Yeah. Backyard’s this way.”   They moved through the kitchen and out through the wide glass doors, and Leo stopped again.   This time he didn’t even pretend.   The backyard looked like a private resort pretending to be a family home. A covered pergola stretched over the patio, its dark beams wrapped with string lights and creeping greenery. Beyond it, the pool shimmered under the mid-morning sun, clean blue water catching pieces of sky. Off to the side, a half basketball court sat pristine and sharp-lined, the hoop standing under the soft December light like it belonged in a training facility. Farther back, tucked near tall hedges, a sleek sauna stood in warm wood and glass.   Leo stared.   Then looked at Paul.   Then back at the court.   “…you have a basketball court.”   Paul shrugged faintly, immediately regretting the movement when his side pulled. “Half of one.”   “Half?” Leo repeated. “That’s all you got?”   “My dad and I like sports.”   “Paul, my mom likes coffee. We don’t have a Starbucks in the backyard.”   That got Paul. A small laugh.   This time he controlled it better, breathing carefully through the tug in his ribs.   “Fair.”   They settled beneath the pergola at the rod-iron dining table, where a pitcher of unsweetened blackberry lemon tea sweated cold against the glass, two cups already set out beside a bowl of watermelon cut into neat cubes. It should have felt easy. Refreshing. Normal.   Instead, the awkwardness sat between them like a third person. Leo poured tea too carefully. Paul adjusted in his chair too slowly, trying not to show how much sitting still hurt when his ribs compressed wrong. For a while, neither of them said what they were both thinking.   Leo took one sip, stared at the pool, then said, “So… how are the Jaguars doing this year?”   Paul turned his head. Slowly. Leo stared straight ahead like the pool held the answer.   Paul blinked. Because Leo hated football. He had openly called sports “competitive homework” during rehearsal. The guy thought touchdowns were worth six seven maybe? It was such an aggressively terrible attempt at normal conversation that somehow—It helped. Paul looked down. Hands clasping together. Because they couldn’t do this all afternoon.   Couldn’t dance around it. Couldn’t pretend.   His chest tightened.   His little side full of fear still scratched at the edges of him. What if he thinks we’re weird? What if he leaves? What if he makes fun of us?   But another part—   The older part. The tired part. The actor part. Knew something. Scenes only moved forward when somebody finally said the hard thing. So Paul inhaled. Deep. Looked up. And decided to stop hiding.   “Hey,” he said quietly.   Leo looked over.   “I get it.”   Leo’s face shifted. “Get what?”   “I know what people said. What they saw.” Paul’s voice tightened, but he didn’t let it break. “And I know what you did. For me. And how it cost you at least a clean pair of shorts.”   Leo looked down fast, embarrassed. “It was one pair.”   “No,” Paul said. “It wasn’t.”   The silence changed. Less awkward. More honest.   Paul swallowed. “So… what do you want to know?”   Leo stared at him for a second, clearly not expecting that. “You’re just going right at it?”   “If we don’t, you’re gonna ask me about hockey next and embarrass both of us.”   Leo huffed a laugh, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Yeah. I mean… I’m not gonna lie and say it wasn’t strange hearing stuff.”   Paul’s stomach tightened.   Leo caught it and leaned forward quickly. “But I don’t care. Not like that.”   Paul stayed still. Listening.   “I think it sucks your secret got out,” Leo said, choosing the word carefully, less like gossip and more like something entrusted. “And I’m sorry people are being garbage about it. But I don’t care in the way you’re probably scared I care.”   Paul looked down. Leo kept going.   “And also…” He hesitated, then gave a small, almost guilty grin. “I’m sorry, but beating the crap out of Danny was kind of badass.”   Paul looked up.   “Seriously?”   “Paul. You knocked his tooth out.”   “He broke my rib.”   “Yeah, which is why I’m not saying he didn’t deserve more.”   Paul didn’t know what to do with that. So he laughed. Then winced. Again.   “Stop making me laugh.”   “Sorry. I’ll be boring.”   “You already asked about the Jaguars.”   “Low blow.”   The air loosened. Not completely. But enough for Paul to reach for a piece of watermelon and actually taste it when he ate it. Leo leaned back slightly. “And for what it’s worth… most of production wants you back.”   Paul froze.   “Most?”   “Almost all,” Leo corrected quickly. “Julia and Declan basically told people if they couldn’t work with everyone respectfully, they could leave.”   Paul’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “How many left?”   Leo’s mouth twitched.   “Three.”   Paul held his breath.   “Two backstage people,” Leo said, “and my understudy.”   Paul blinked.   “Your understudy?”   “Yeah. Which is rude because if I get sick now, Atticus is dead.”   Paul shook his head, but relief hit him so hard it almost made him dizzy. Three. Only three. Not everyone. Not the whole cast. Not the entire world. Maybe theatre hadn’t shut its doors on him. Maybe the stage still had room for who he was now.   Leo reached into his backpack and pulled out the script. “So… lines?”   Paul looked at the pages. And something inside him warmed. Not little. Not scared. Not hidden. Something older. Truer.   “Yeah,” he said. “Lines.”     They started seated at first.   Leo as Atticus. Paul as Jem.   Paul kept his script low in his lap, one hand pressed lightly against his ribs when he needed to breathe through the ache. Leo stood near the table, awkward for the first few lines, then better once the rhythm found him. They ran a courtroom-adjacent exchange first, then one of the quieter father-son moments after the world had begun pressing in around the children. Leo’s Atticus was thoughtful, restrained, a little too careful. Paul’s Jem came alive almost instantly.   His posture changed.   Not fully—his injury wouldn’t allow that—but enough. His shoulders set differently. His face sharpened. His voice lost the guarded edge it had carried all morning and became younger in a completely different way: not regressed, not fragile, but teenage and wounded and proud, a boy trying to understand why grown-ups kept calling cruelty justice.   “You knew, didn’t you?” Paul said as Jem, his voice low, hurt threading through every word. “You knew what they were gonna do before they did it.”   Leo’s eyes lifted from the page. Something in Paul’s delivery pulled him out of reading and into listening. As Atticus, Leo answered carefully, trying to hold the weight of a father explaining the world without crushing his son beneath it.   “I knew what we were up against.”   Paul’s jaw tightened, Jem’s anger rising through him like heat. “Then why make us hope?”   The line wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It landed. Leo paused, and for a second, even the yard seemed quieter. The pool shimmered. The tea pitcher sweated. Somewhere inside, a glass clinked faintly. Paul stayed in it, eyes locked on   Leo, pain forgotten for just long enough to let the scene breathe. Leo found something then. Not perfect. But real.   “Because hope isn’t foolish just because people fail it,” he said as Atticus, softer now.   Paul swallowed, and Jem’s hurt shifted into something that looked almost like betrayal. Almost like heartbreak. Almost like a boy who had believed in someone and didn’t know what to do when belief wasn’t enough. For a breath, Paul wasn’t thinking about the play. He was thinking about Amber.   Amber standing in a hospital room. Amber saying Marcus’s name like it cost her. Amber still loving the person who had helped set the match near the gasoline.   He blinked once and pulled the feeling into Jem instead of letting it drown him.   “That’s stupid,” Paul said, barely above a whisper. “If people can just hurt you anyway.”   Leo didn’t answer immediately. Because now he wasn’t just reading either. He was watching Paul give him something real. Finally, Leo spoke, low and fatherly, though still a little rough around the edges.   “No. It means you learn what kind of man you want to be before the world teaches you otherwise.”   The silence after that felt earned. Then Paul let the character drop, slowly, like stepping out of cold water. He reached for the chair. Moved wrong. Pain cut through his side. His breath caught.   Leo stepped forward instinctively. “Paul—”   “I’m okay,” Paul said quickly, though his face had gone pale for a second. He eased himself down into the chair, one hand still braced against his ribs. “Just forgot my torso is currently decorative.”   Leo sat across from him, watching carefully. “That was… really good.”   Paul looked down, suddenly embarrassed.   “Yeah?”   “Yeah.”   A small smile found Paul.   Then Leo glanced at the script. “Was I terrible?”   “No.”   Leo waited.   Paul tilted his hand. “You were… safe.”   “Safe is bad.”   “Safe is boring.”   “Ouch.”   Paul smiled more fully now, and the confidence returned in pieces—not loud, not arrogant, but familiar. He adjusted the script on the table and leaned forward, careful not to compress his ribs too much.   “Okay. Your Atticus has the brain right, but not the heart yet.”   Leo frowned thoughtfully. “Explain.”   “You’re making him wise,” Paul said. “That’s easy. Everyone plays Atticus wise.”   Leo nodded slowly.   “But he’s also tired. He’s a dad. He knows Jem is hurting. He knows Scout is watching everything. He knows he can’t fix the world for them, and it’s killing him.”   Leo’s face changed.   “So when you say the empathy stuff,” Paul continued, “don’t say it like you’re giving a speech. Say it like you’re trying to hand someone a flashlight in a dark room.”   Leo looked down at the page. Paul’s voice softened.   “When you love somebody… when somebody really matters to you… you don’t want them scared.”   The words came out quieter than he intended.   Slower.   The hurt underneath them not fully hidden. Leo looked up. Paul didn’t. His eyes stayed somewhere near the edge of the table, but his mind had gone somewhere else entirely.   To Amber.   No   His heart went out to somebody, maybe. He wasn’t sure, except was she. Did Savvy maybe have the same feelings he had? In his wildest dreams maybe.   “You explain things softer,” Paul said. “Even when you’re angry. Even when you’re disappointed. Even when it hurts.”   A faint crack touched his voice. Not dramatic. Not big. Just enough.   “Because you still want them to understand. You still want to protect them from the worst parts of it.”   Just silence.   Paul cleared his throat, pulling himself back.   “So… less school presentation. More someone worth loving.”   Leo stood and tried the line again.   This time his Atticus changed.   Not perfect.   Better.   The wisdom remained, but the edges softened. His pacing slowed. His eyes lifted from the page more. He let the words land like they were meant for someone he loved, someone he couldn’t save from pain but refused to abandon inside it.   Paul watched him closely. Director’s eyes. Actor’s heart.   “Better,” he said. “Way better.”   Leo exhaled. “Thank Goodness.”   “But don’t look away at the end.”   Leo groaned. “Of course there’s more.”   “There’s always more.”   Paul pushed himself up again, slower this time. Leo noticed and waited without making a thing of it. That mattered too. Paul stepped into Jem’s place again, hand at his ribs for one breath before lowering it.   “Again,” he said.   They ran it. Then ran it again. And again.   Each time, something sharpened. Leo found more stillness. Paul found more fire. Jem’s anger became grief. Atticus’s calm became restraint instead of distance. The scene began to breathe between them, not as two students practicing lines, but as two people building something fragile and alive out of words written long before either of them knew what public shame felt like. Paul for this moment was no longer looking to escape into saftey, not hiding from the world but looking to reach for it, parts of it anyways. Lilly appeared at the patio doors just as the last line settled between them, the glass sliding open with a soft whisper that pulled both boys out of rehearsal and back into the warm middle of Sunday. She stepped outside dressed in a way only Lilly seemed able to make look effortless—homey, soft, but still unmistakably put together. A cream knit lounge set hugged her comfortably without looking careless, the sleeves pushed slightly up her forearms, gold hoops catching the sun whenever she turned her head. Her hair was loosely pulled back with a few soft pieces framing her face, and even barefoot in the backyard, carrying lunch plates like any stepmother on a quiet weekend, she still looked like she belonged in a lifestyle magazine spread titled casual luxury after surviving emotional devastation.   “Okay, boys,” she said warmly, crossing under the pergola with two plates balanced in her hands. “Director’s break.” Paul turned first, cheeks still faintly flushed from the energy of rehearsal, one hand pressed lightly against his ribs after the last stretch of standing.   “Oh my God… are those Hatch green chile turkey paninis?”   Lilly smiled, pleased. “They are.”   Leo leaned forward immediately, the script forgotten for a second. “That smells sooooooo good.”   The paninis were cut on a diagonal, the toasted bread pressed golden and crisp, melted cheese peeking from the edges around sliced turkey and flecks of roasted Hatch green chile. Beside each sandwich sat a handful of plantain chips, lightly salted and curled into crisp golden arcs, and a small garden salad bright with cucumber, cherry tomatoes, shredded carrot, and greens tossed lightly in avocado ranch dressing. Lilly set Paul’s plate down first, her eyes moving over him in that quiet way she had—checking without making him feel checked, noticing his color, his breathing, the faint pinch at the corner of his mouth when he shifted too fast. Then she set Leo’s plate down.   “Leo, honey, I’m Lilly,” she said with an easy smile. “Paul’s stepmom.”   Leo stood halfway out of instinct, awkward but polite. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”   Lilly’s expression softened. “Lilly is fine.”   “Right. Sorry. Lilly.” He glanced toward the food, then back toward the house, suddenly embarrassed by biology interrupting hospitality. “Actually, before I eat… could I use the restroom?”   “Of course,” Lilly said, pointing gently toward the far side of the yard. “The pool house is closest. Right beside the sauna.”   “Thank you.”   Leo grabbed his phone from the table and headed off across the patio, passing the pool and disappearing toward the small structure tucked near the hedges.   The second he was out of earshot, Lilly looked down at Paul. And smiled.   Not the caregiver smile. Not the careful one. The proud one.   “You know,” she said softly, lowering herself into the chair beside him, “your dad and I had the kitchen window open.”   Paul froze slightly.   Lilly’s smile deepened. “You two sounded really good out here.”   His face went pink instantly. “You were listening?”   “Not spying,” she clarified, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “Listening supportively from a respectful distance.”   “That sounds like spying with branding.”   “It was excellent branding.” She reached over and gently brushed her thumb along his shoulder. “And I mean it, sweetheart. Your chemistry is strong. You were helping him find the scene, not just run lines.”   Paul looked down at his script. For a second, he didn’t answer. Because he’d felt it too.   That strange, almost frightening pull back toward himself. The way the words had made his blood move faster. The way directing Leo had given him something solid to stand on, even with his ribs aching and his body still trying to remind him it wasn’t ready for too much.   “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “This was a good idea.”   Lilly’s eyes softened. There it was. The smallest door opening.   Paul glanced back up. “What have you and Dad been doing?”   “Packing for Utah, silly,” she said lightly. “We leave Friday.”   That made something flicker in him—nervousness and excitement tangled together—but before he could chase either feeling too far, Lilly reached into the pocket of her cardigan and produced the pain patch.   Paul exhaled in immediate relief.   “Oh, thank God.”   “I thought so.” She tilted her head. “Lift your shirt for me?”   He did, carefully untucking the hem just enough and raising it with one hand while his other stayed braced near his side. Lilly moved slowly, peeling the backing off the patch and placing it gently over the tender area, smoothing only the edges so she didn’t press too hard.   Paul let out a careful breath.   “Better?”   “Already mentally better,” he said.   “I’ll take that.” She paused, voice still soft but practical. “Do you need to use the restroom before lunch? Or change anything? How’s the step-in feeling?”   Paul looked at her, honestly unsure.   “I… don’t really know.”   Then his expression shifted. A small tightness crossed his face, subtle but immediate, and Lilly noticed before he said a word.   “Okay,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “So lets go back in the house, you can use the bathroom off the back stairs and I’ll grab you another pair of Step Ins and you can change right there, alright?”   Paul nodded, grateful she hadn’t made him explain more than he had to.   “Thanks, Mom.”   She leaned in and kissed his hair. “Always.”   A few minutes later, Paul came back outside slower than before but steadier, the patch already taking the sharpest edge off the pain. Leo was seated again beneath the pergola, nearly finished with his sandwich, a plantain chip halfway to his mouth.   Paul stopped short.   “Dude, you’re almost done?”   Leo looked down at his plate like he’d been caught committing a crime. “I was hungry.”   “I was gone for like three minutes.”   “Sorry,” Leo said, though he was smiling.   Paul sat carefully, easing himself down with one hand on the table and the other near his side. “Sorry I disappeared.”   Leo shrugged like it was nothing. Because to him, it was.   “You’re good.”   And somehow those two words mattered more than they should have. They ate for a while in easy quiet, the kind that felt different from the awkward silence earlier. This one had space in it. Comfort. Leo texted his mom under the table, thumb moving quickly before he glanced up.   “Texted her. Told her maybe twenty-five minutes?”   Paul nodded. “Cool.”   The breeze moved gently through the pergola, stirring the script pages between them. Sunlight flashed across the pool. Somewhere inside, Lilly laughed at something Bryan said, the sound faint but warm through the open kitchen window. Leo set his phone down. Then looked at Paul.   “So…” Leo began.   Paul already knew. His stomach tightened anyway.   Leo’s voice softened. “Are you gonna come back?”   The question landed with weight.   Not pressure. Not guilt. Just hope.   Paul looked down at the table. At the script. At the watermelon bowl. At the corner of his plate where a smear of avocado ranch clung to a lettuce leaf.   His little side panicked first. Soft and scared. Stay home. Stay with Daddy. Stay with Mommy. Stay where nobody laughs. Stay and play. Stay where the doors lock and everything bad stays outside.   For a second, the fear almost won. It would be easier. To stay inside the safe rooms. To let the world narrow down to home, family, recovery, familiar routines. To never again walk into a hallway where his name could become a weapon.   But then—The scene came back. Leo standing beneath the pergola, finding Atticus. Paul hearing his own voice become Jem.   The thrill of it. The ache of it.   The way the words had lifted him beyond pain for just a few minutes. The way leadership had returned to his body before confidence had. And then— Amber. Leo. Julia. Declan. The three people who left. The ones who stayed.   Paul lifted his eyes.   There was nervousness there. Of course there was. But there was something else too. Something stronger. A smile slowly pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.   “Yeah,” he said.   Leo blinked, like he hadn’t expected the answer to come that clearly.   Paul breathed in, careful of his ribs, and nodded again.   “Yes. I’m coming back.”   The words felt terrifying. And enormous. And right.   “I’m gonna call the school Monday with my parents,” Paul continued, voice serious now, still slightly unsteady but holding. “We’ll figure out what it looks like after winter break. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not every day right away. But… yeah.”   He touched the script lightly.   “I want to come back.”   Leo’s face opened with relief so visible it almost made Paul look away.   “Good,” Leo said quickly. Then softer, more honestly, “Good. Because we need you.”   Paul swallowed. Leo leaned forward, suddenly earnest.   “And I won’t say anything before you do. I promise. No big announcement. No group chat thing. Nothing. Your return stays yours.”   Paul looked at him. That mattered too. More than applause. More than being wanted. Control. A piece of it, finally handed back.   “Thanks,” Paul said quietly.   And somewhere in the space between pain and possibility, Paul sat a little taller.   The knock came gentle but authoritative. Three firm taps against the front door.   Not urgent. Not casual.   Just enough to cut through the quiet morning warmth of the Goldhawk house. Outside, Jacksonville sat under a strange December sky—brisk for Florida, thirty-nine degrees and sharp enough to make the palm fronds tremble lightly in the wind. Thin streaks of sun still pushed through the pale morning clouds, but beyond them, darker storm cover gathered in slow, heavy layers, rolling in from the west like something the day had been trying to outrun. The light had that unsettled quality before weather changed—gold at the edges, grey at the center, beautiful in a way that warned you not to trust it.   “I’ve got it!”   Paul’s voice carried from the kitchen before he appeared, brighter than it had been in days, maybe weeks, and then he came into view, moving through the living room with that familiar careful waddle he still hated but had stopped letting ruin every moment. The bottoms of his safari pajamas brushed softly around his legs, but over them he wore his white Jacksonville Jaguars jersey from 2015, the black sleeves peeking beneath the white body, teal number bold across the front, the Jags crest sitting proudly near his shoulder like some small flag of who he still wanted to be. It was the jersey he would have worn yesterday if he’d watched the game live, but he had missed it—and somehow, for once, he didn’t regret that.   Yesterday had been worth missing football for. Yesterday had been Leo. Rehearsal. The patio. The thrill of getting pulled back into a world where people looked at him and saw talent before damage. A peer had sat across from him and listened, not laughed. Followed direction, not whispered. Asked if he was coming back, not if the rumors were true. And after Leo left, Paul hadn’t disappeared back into the nursery except when his body forced the practical things. He had stayed big. Stayed present. Stayed alive in the real world long enough to pack for Utah, to talk snowboarding with Bryan, to imagine cold mountain air filling his lungs, to think of Savvy and maybe—maybe—a stolen kiss under mistletoe, which had made him blush so hard he had nearly dropped a sweater into the wrong suitcase. Then dinner had happened, and God, dinner had felt like proof. His dad had said yes when Paul asked if he could roast the chicken, and together they had cranked the oven to 450, spatchcocked the bird with Bryan guiding the knife when Paul’s ribs made certain angles impossible, rubbed it down with salt, smoked paprika, garlic, mustard powder, thyme, and a little brown sugar, surrounded it with root vegetables, and made pan sauce from the drippings while Yorkshire pudding puffed golden in the oven. Paul had stood there in the kitchen feeling like someone had handed him back a version of himself he thought had been confiscated. Not fully. Not permanently. But enough.   “Okay, mister,” Lilly called after him from the kitchen, her voice warm but carrying that stepmother authority he had learned to trust. “But when you get back here, you’re having something more for breakfast than just a protein smoothie, okay?”   “Okay!” Paul shouted back, smiling despite himself.   He had barely slept last night, but it hadn’t been the ribs this time. They still hurt, of course. A dull pull under the left side whenever he turned too quickly, a hot reminder when he laughed, a strange tightness when he breathed too deep. But the pain wasn’t the loudest thing anymore. Excitement was. Nerves were. Today was the day they were going to call Bishop’s Gate. Today was the day he would announce—not publicly, not dramatically, but in the only way that mattered—that he was coming back after winter break, as much as the school, his parents, and his body could manage. Maybe modified. Maybe gradual. Maybe with conditions. But back. The word had lived in his chest all morning like a spark. He reached the front door and slowed, aware suddenly of the sound beneath his pajama bottoms, the soft telltale crinkle and the way his steps still announced more than he wanted them to. He opened the door only partway, keeping his lower half hidden behind the heavy wood.   A young Hispanic UPS driver stood on the porch in a brown uniform jacket zipped against the chill, tablet in hand, breath faint in the cold air. “Paul Goldhawk?”   Paul nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”   “Signature required.”   Paul took the stylus and signed awkwardly against the digital pad, still balancing the door with one hand, still trying not to shift too much. The driver gave him a polite smile, then handed over a medium square box covered in red-and-white FRAGILE stickers, with a sealed envelope taped flat across the top. The envelope’s label read URGENT / OVERNIGHT DELIVERY in stark black letters.   “Have a good one,” the driver said.   “Thanks,” Paul replied automatically.   He closed the door with his hip, the cold morning disappearing behind him, and stood there for half a second in the entryway with the box in his hands. He set the envelope carefully on the entryway table first, then carried the box a few steps farther in and lowered it down near the console. The weight surprised him when he tried to open it, heavier than he expected, and his ribs protested as he tugged at the packing tape. He winced, muttered under his breath, and took it slower, peeling cardboard back, pulling foam aside, fingers catching on layers of bubble wrap until at last he could lift the object free.   A shadow box. Dark wood frame. Glass front. Heavy. Beautiful.   The first thing his eyes found was Bishop’s Gate.   Crimson red. Gold. Black.   The school colors arranged around velvet backing, rich and ceremonial, framing the school crest with almost painful elegance. And there, mounted inside with perfect care, sat the thing Paul had wanted for years.   The Bishop’s Gate letter award.   His breath stopped. For one suspended second, nothing else existed. He had dreamed about that award. Not in a shallow way. Not as some rich-kid trophy to throw on a shelf. He had wanted what it meant. Commitment. Belonging. Proof that he had mattered somewhere beyond his last name, beyond Bryan’s career, beyond old wounds and new symptoms and every private battle no one clapped for. He had imagined earning it through theatre, through performance, through staying, through showing up.   Then his eyes moved beside it.   A diploma. His diploma.   Or something close enough that, at first, his mind couldn’t make sense of the difference.   Successful Completion of Bishop’s Gate Academy.   The words sat inside the frame like marble over a grave.   Paul blinked.   Once. Twice.   His hand drifted toward the envelope.   No. No, no, no.   Maybe this was part of the call. Maybe this was early paperwork. Maybe this was ceremonial. Maybe this was— He tore the envelope open too fast, paper ripping unevenly beneath shaking fingers. His ribs burned. He didn’t care. He unfolded the letter and began to read. His chest tightened so hard that breathing became a fight. His ribs screamed under the pressure, but the pain barely registered because something else was happening now, something deeper than thought and faster than reason. The world was narrowing. Words blurred. The crimson and gold and black inside the frame seemed to swell and pulse like a wound.   The letter shook in his hand.   “No!”   The scream ripped out of him so hard it tore through his ribs and turned instantly into pain. He gagged on the breath that followed. The shadow box slipped from his grip, or maybe he threw it; later, none of them would know. It hit the floor with a violent crash, glass exploding across the entryway in bright, glittering shards. The diploma slid sideways inside the broken frame. The letter flew from his hand. The letter award struck the tile with a dull, terrible thud.     Back in the kitchen, Lilly and Bryan were sitting at the breakfast table in the small warmth before the day fully began. Bryan wore reading glasses low on his nose, the morning paper opened in front of him, untouched oatmeal cooling beside a French-style omelet folded pale and perfect with herbs tucked inside. Hash browns sat golden at the edge of his plate. Lilly had both hands wrapped around her tea, her own breakfast smaller—oatmeal, fruit, half an omelet—her bare foot tucked beneath her on the chair. She leaned over suddenly, because she had been watching him read and loved him for no reason more complicated than the fact that he was there, in the same morning as her, and kissed him with enough warmth that Bryan lowered the paper mid-sentence.   He smiled against her mouth. “What was that for?”   Lilly smiled back, eyes soft. “Just because I love you.”   Bryan’s answer never came.     “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”     The word split the house open. Not shouted. Not called.   Screamed.   Layered with sadness and hate and pain so raw that both of them moved before understanding. Then came the gagging sound. The crash. Glass. Something heavy hitting tile. Another scream, this one breaking apart into something strangled and animal.   “PAUL!”   They shouted it together. Two voices. One fear.   Bryan was out of his chair so fast it toppled behind him. Lilly’s tea spilled across the table, hot liquid running toward the edge, forgotten instantly. They bolted from the kitchen, Bryan first, Lilly right behind him, and the hallway seemed too long, impossibly long, stretching between them and whatever had happened to their son.   Then they saw him.   Paul was on the floor near the entryway, face up and half twisted, jersey bright white against the chaos, the teal number on his chest rising and falling too fast. Vomit covered the front of him and pooled sickly across the tile near his shoulder, the smell hitting them a second later—sharp, sour, violent. The shadow box lay shattered around him. Glass scattered everywhere. Bishop’s Gate crimson, gold, and black torn apart across the floor like the colors of a battlefield. The letter sat off to one side, half crumpled, official letterhead visible beneath a smear of something wet.   And Paul— Paul was gone into it. Not conscious in the ordinary sense. Not reachable.   His body bucked against the tile, one arm striking out blindly, the other clawing at his own jersey as if the fabric was suffocating him. His heels scraped. His breath came in high, broken bursts. He screamed, then sobbed, then gagged again, the sounds folding into each other until they no longer sounded like words.   “No, no, no, no, no—” he cried, but even that barely held shape. “No more—don’t—don’t send me away—no, no, no—”   “Paul,” Bryan said, voice already lowering, already changing into the tone he used when fear had no room to show. “Buddy, I’m here.”   Paul didn’t hear him.   His hand slapped against the tile, landing in glass. Blood appeared instantly across his palm.   Lilly saw it and gasped. “Bryan—his hands.”   That snapped him forward. Bryan moved without thinking, socks sliding through a field of shards as he crossed the distance. A piece of glass bit through the thin fabric under his foot, hot and sharp, but he barely felt it. He dropped beside Paul and tried to gather him carefully, one arm behind his shoulders, one hand trying to keep Paul’s injured palms away from the floor.   “Paul, I need you still,” he said, breath tight but voice steady. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”   Paul screamed harder at the word safe.   His body jerked sideways, ribs making the movement agony, and the pain only fed the panic. He tried to crawl away, not toward anything, just away—from the letter, from the frame, from the verdict his mind had already accepted as exile. His palm dragged across tile and glass again.   “Stop,” Bryan whispered, more to the universe than to Paul. “Buddy, stop, you’re hurting yourself.”   Lilly’s own fear came in pieces now. First the blood. Then the vomit. Then the glass. Then the letter. Her training, instinct, love, all of it collided at once. She turned and sprinted back toward the kitchen, returning seconds later with a broom, paper towels, and a clean dish towel clutched in one hand. She swept frantically but carefully, clearing a path more than cleaning, pushing glass away from Paul’s flailing legs as Bryan tried again to pull him into his lap.   Paul fought him. Not with anger. With terror.   “Paul—”   But Paul wasn’t hearing words anymore. His nervous system had already left the room.   He crawled.   Not ran. Crawled. Hands slipping awkwardly against marble. Knees dragging. Body folding strangely around pain and panic and instinct. Toward the living room. Toward softness. Toward anywhere except here. Anywhere except the shattered thing on the floor. The crinkle beneath his clothes whispered faintly with every movement, unnoticed by everyone except perhaps the cruelest part of fate itself.   “No no no—”   His words had collapsed now.   Smaller. Messier.   “D-Daddy—M-Mommy”   A sob swallowed the rest.   “Stop—”   Then nonsense. Fragments. Broken sounds that no longer belonged to language. Bryan stayed frozen for half a heartbeat. Not because he didn’t know what to do. Because seeing his son crawl—Actually crawl—did something terrible to him.   “Bryan…”   Lilly’s voice changed. He knew that tone instantly. Fear. Regret and Heartbreak. Bryan looked back once toward Paul—now halfway across the living room carpet, crawling clumsily, shaking so hard his movements barely coordinated—before rising and crossing back to Lilly. Paul’s broken sounds filled the house behind them. Lilly unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. Bryan read over her shoulder.   At first, the words were polite. Too polite. Administrative. Compassionate. Formal in the way people sounded when they were trying to make something cruel look careful.   "In recognition of your extraordinary contributions to Bishop’s Gate Academy… In light of recent events and your ongoing medical recovery and the need to ensure a safe and productive learning environment for every student. After careful consideration of your well-being, privacy, and educational future…   The Academy has elected to confer honorary completion status effective immediately…   Your academic record will reflect successful completion. In addition, your letter award is enclosed in recognition of your outstanding artistic and extracurricular contribution. We believe this path protects your dignity while allowing you to transition forward with full institutional support…"   Bryan went still. Lilly stopped breathing.   Not suspension. Not accommodations. Not recovery leave.   They looked up together. Paul had made it to the carpet now. Half-curled near the edge of the living room, trying to crawl farther but barely moving anymore, body shaking too hard to cooperate. His palms left faint streaks of blood against the cream rug.   “Oh my God,” Lilly whispered.   Paul let out another sound. Smaller now. Weaker.   “Daddy…Mommy”   That was enough. Bryan looked at Lilly once. No discussion. No plan. Just instinct. Together. They crossed the living room slowly this time.   Carefully.   Like approaching something frightened and wounded. Paul barely noticed them until they sat down. Bryan lowered himself on Paul’s left. Lilly to his right. Not crowding. Not trapping. Just there. Safe. Paul tried weakly to crawl again. Bryan reached gently. One arm sliding around him. Firm. Certain.   “No more moving, buddy,” he whispered quietly.   No correction. No explanation. No fixing. Just certainty. Paul resisted weakly at first, body trembling harder, words dissolving into mess.   “N-no—” A sob. “Stop—” Then something swallowed and broken. “M-mommy—D-daddy—”   Everything else tangled into unintelligible sounds. Bryan pulled him in anyway. Not forceful. Protective. Cradling him against his chest like instinct had already decided what his brain hadn’t. One hand around shoulders. The other supporting carefully beneath him to avoid the ribs. Paul folded. Not willingly. Just exhausted. Body finally giving up.   Still shaking. Still crying. Still breathing too fast.   His hands curled uselessly against Bryan’s chest, trembling violently. Bryan started rocking before realizing he was doing it.   “I know,” Bryan whispered into his hair.   Not trying to reason. Not trying to explain. Just anchoring.   “I know, buddy.”   Paul’s body jerked again.   “D-Daddy—”   The word cracked apart into sobbing. Lilly moved closer immediately. Her own tears already slipping loose.   “Hey sweetheart,” she whispered softly.   She gently took hold of Paul’s injured hands, carefully unfolding bloodied fingers before wrapping them loosely in the dish towel she had brought.   “Easy… easy…”   Her voice barely louder than rain. No pressure. No questions. Just care. Keeping glass away. Keeping blood contained. Keeping him safe. She leaned closer then, shoulder pressing lightly into Bryan’s side as though even they needed to physically hold each other up right now. (The song helps makes the moment)   Fix You - 80s Rock Ballad - Coldplay Best Cover) (mp3cut.net).mp3     When you try your best, but you don't succeed When you get what you want, but not what you need When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep Stuck in reverse Dr. Reginald Hayes stood behind his desk with the phone pressed against his ear, the dark wood around him polished to a shine that made the room feel colder than it should have. Outside his office window, storm clouds thickened above the courtyard, dimming the crimson-and-gold banners that still hung from the upper balcony like nothing had changed. “Thank you, Elena,” he said, voice measured, almost too calm. “The notice went out this morning. The young man signed for it himself.” He listened, one hand resting against the edge of the desk, fingers tapping once before stilling completely. Elena Vargas’s voice came through smooth and professional, telling him she would remain available through the afternoon, especially if the Goldhawks made any legal moves before end of business. Hayes closed his eyes for half a second, the decision settling over him again—not regret exactly, but something adjacent to it. “When they reach out,” he said quietly, “make sure they understand how difficult this decision was.” The sentence sounded appropriate. Respectable. Administrative. And somehow, even as he said it, he knew it would mean absolutely nothing to the boy whose future had just been delivered in a box. And the tears come streaming down your face When you lose something you can't replace When you love someone, but it goes to waste Could it be worse? Down the drama hallway, Leo slowed before he meant to. A custodian stood beneath the bulletin wall, carefully peeling down another poster—one of the cruel ones, one of the bright neon mockeries that had turned Paul into a joke for people too cowardly to say their ugliness out loud without paper between them. The man scraped tape from the wall with patient, exhausted movements. Beside him, another staff member reached up to the marquee and removed Paul’s name letter by letter. Leo watched the first white plastic character come down. Then the next. Then the next. Something hot built behind his eyes, not tears exactly, more like anger with nowhere useful to go. By the time the replacement name slid into place, Leo’s hand had curled into a fist around the strap of his backpack. Nobody in the hall said anything. That made it worse. Outside campus, Amber was already shouting into her phone. “Marcus, they expelled him,” she said, pacing near the parking lot with one hand pressed against her forehead, her voice shaking hard enough to turn heads. “They expelled Paul. What the actual fuck?” She listened for half a second, then exploded again. “No—no, don’t you dare make this about what the school decided. Why did you have to get involved? Why? Why couldn’t you just leave him alone?” Her engagement ring glinted against her chest where it hung from the chain around her neck, catching the grey morning light like an accusation. She looked toward the school, toward the building that suddenly felt smaller and uglier than it had yesterday, and for the first time, the future she had defended so fiercely with Marcus did not feel like a sure thing.   Lights will guide you home And ignite your bones And I will try to fix you In the drama wing, Julia sat behind her classroom desk with both hands folded tightly together, staring at the rehearsal calendar as if the right answer might appear between the crossed-out names and highlighted scene blocks. Declan stood near the blackbox entrance, pacing in tight, angry lines, his accent thickening the more his restraint frayed.   “We might as well cancel the whole bleedin’ fuckin’ thing,” he snapped, dragging a hand hard through his hair before letting out a frustrated breath through his nose. “I mean it, Julia—what in God’s name are we doin’ here? Pretendin’ this isn’t the spine o’ the whole bloody production?”   Julia inhaled carefully, measured like someone stepping around broken glass.   “There are other students counting on this production, Declan.”   “Ah here now,” he said, throwing one hand out in disbelief. “Other students? Of course there are other students. I’m not thick.” His voice cracked louder suddenly. “But what have I got left then, eh? Fifty percent of an opening cast?”   Frustrated energy practically radiating off him.   “Jem without Scout is half a heartbeat,” he muttered bitterly, pointing toward the stage. “Scout without Jem is half a story.” Then he stopped again, jaw flexing hard enough to show. “And Paul…”   The name landed differently. Quieter. He looked away. Toward the empty stage.   “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head once.   Julia looked down at the rehearsal schedule again. Because she remembered. Paul staying late to help understudies. Giving notes when nobody asked. Helping nervous freshmen hit cues without making them feel stupid. Declan exhaled sharply through his nose.   “And now what?” he said bitterly. “We’re after tellin’ everybody to carry on like nothin’ happened?” He shook his head. “Bollocks to that.” And high up above or down below When you're too in love to let it go But if you never try, you'll never know Just what you're worth   The nursery was dim and quiet, the blinds drawn against the gathering storm outside. Paul lay completely stripped down on the changing table, his body still trembling from the meltdown, tears streaking his face, chest heaving with exhausted sobs. Bryan worked with steady, gentle hands, his own heart breaking at the sight of his son so shattered. He reached underneath the changing table and selected the thickest overnight diaper they owned. He slid three stuffers inside for added bulk, then spread a thick, generous layer of rash cream across Paul’s skin, smoothing it carefully to soothe and shield every inch. Next came a heavy dusting of baby powder, the sweet scent filling the room as Bryan worked it in thoroughly. He taped the massively padded diaper securely around Paul’s waist, the bulk so pronounced that Bryan had to stretch the pair of plastic pants to their limit just to pull them up and over the swollen diaper, the crinkle loud and unmistakable. Lilly knelt beside them, her hands steady as she carefully bandaged the cuts on Paul’s palms.   Bryan lifted the sleep sack, threading Paul’s hands gently through the arm holes so he could no longer hurt himself, then zipped it snugly around his son’s body. Lilly leaned in, attaching the pacifier clip to the sleep sack collar before slipping the pacifier between Paul’s lips. Paul began to suckle almost immediately, the rhythmic motion slowly calming his sobs as exhaustion finally took over.   He then lifted his son into his arms and carried him to the rocking chair. Lilly quietly shut the blinds the rest of the way, blocking out the gathering storm outside. Bryan rocked Paul slowly, the motion rhythmic and soothing, his big hands rubbing gentle circles on his son’s back. Paul’s pacifier bobbed peacefully between his lips, his emotions and self finally finding rest as exhaustion pulled him under. Tears stream down your face When you lose something you cannot replace Tears stream down your face, and I A little while later, Lilly stood in the nursery doorway with her phone held up, the camera turned toward the rail bed where Paul now lay tucked beneath soft blankets, the mobile still turning above him in slow circles. Dr. Mindy Rowe’s face filled the screen, her expression gentle but serious as she watched the tiny rise and fall of Paul’s breathing. Lilly turned the phone back around, her own eyes red. “Mindy,” she whispered, “what do we do next?” There was no pride left in her voice, no social polish, no attempt to sound composed. Just a stepmother terrified of choosing wrong. Mindy didn’t rush her answer. “I’m coming over this afternoon,” she said. “We’ll treat today as an acute trauma response. Keep the environment low-stimulation, keep him safe.” Lilly nodded, pressing her lips together so they wouldn’t tremble. “Okay.” Mindy’s voice softened. “He isn’t broken, Lilly.” Lilly closed her eyes. That was supposed to help. Maybe later, it would. Tears stream down your face I promise you I will learn from my mistakes Tears stream down your face, and I Upstairs, Bryan stood alone in Paul’s adult room. The room that had felt like a promise yesterday.   The broken diploma frame rested on the desk now, glass removed but the damage still visible in every warped edge and torn corner. Beside it lay the letter award, cracked free from its perfect velvet mount, no longer ceremonial, no longer beautiful. Just evidence. Bryan stared at it while holding his phone to his ear, his jaw locked so tightly it ached. “Andre,” he said, voice low and controlled in the way that meant control was all he had left, “tell me our legal options.” He listened, one hand braced against Paul’s desk, surrounded by jerseys, books, microphones, the pieces of his son’s future that still belonged to him. Then Bryan looked down at the torn letter again, and something inside him went cold. “They called it honorary completion,” he said. “My son read it as exile.” A pause. “So no, I don’t want a polite response. I want every option.” Lights will guide you home And ignite your bones And I will try to fix you In the nursery, Paul slept on, the pacifier still bobbing gently. Lilly lingered in the doorway, watching her son, her heart aching with the weight of the morning. Bryan’s voice carried faintly from upstairs. The family was fractured but not broken. They would learn from this. They would fix what they could. And they would stand together—no matter how dark the storm outside became.

Hollie definitely does kink.  We'll have to wait and see how much free time she has when she flies up.  Remember, Dana and Hollie are filling temporary holes in Spats' prostitution network.  But Ruby will be back when she gets out of jail.

Thanks for your comment.  This is a satire, but I try hard to keep the groundwork realistic.