Trading Post

Wow, you can tell hear how unreliable a narrator Gabby is in the other story, just by what parts of the dialog are excluded, or deliberately glossed over. Like, Gabby says she asked Tess if there was anywhere else Spike could go. She doesn't say that she says, "You're just inviting some little thug into my house without asking me." And she doesn't even mention (or maybe even register?) that the other option that Tess proposes is that she moves out. It's been great having a new chapter to start my day with here (you seem to release them when it's early- to mid-morning here). Thank you. Only downside is wanting more, and knowing you have to wait.

The little digger style is unique. Definitely that

There were a lot of things that Emily did and was going to have to do in order to become little Emily, selling her house, donating her custom-made adult clothing, picking the things she wanted to keep and things she wanted to sell in her old house, furniture that needed to be sorted through, family pictures and that was just her home, she still had a job and business shares. She attempted to do that but she kept putting it off and going back and forth, thinking of the pros and cons. When she disappeared from daycare and cut off all contact from everyone who knew her little side she focused on being adult Emily, responsible Emily, mature Emily. She desperately tried to silence little Emily, but the need for her kept coming up, from watching parents push their babies in strollers, to little girls climbing on monkey bars or playing with older siblings or hell even parents scolding their children. Then came the dreams and a few late night accidents, she even tried to silence little Emily with alcohol which only made her really sick, she also couldn't go to a therapist cuz if she revealed the truth she could very well go to jail. I'm thinking about her Time with Miss Camilla and Madison even with Alice and her mommy just made her desires stronger, then one night after having a temper tantrum after wetting herself and Emily decided that she was going to give up the adult life, she had perfect out with Camilla and Madison. But would they accept her? They probably mad at her for cutting them off, worried about her if she was okay. Would they close the door on her, would they lock her out and call the police? Emily couldn't help but breathe heavily her anxiety was getting the best of her, her mind running wild with all kinds of nightmare scenarios dancing in her mind every way this could end. But then she felt Camilla picking her up and gently putting her in a warm embrace.  Before Camilla could say anything little Emily started to cry, "I am sorrwe I am so fucking sniff sorrwe-I-I mean sorry, sorry for cutting you out sorry for sniff abandoning you sorry for leaving you, for running away, f-for saying sorrwe no fuck s-s-sob-sorry I-I want to be a baby I am diapee a-and baba and panking a-and all o-sob-of that a-and most important of all I want my my mommy a-and big sissy waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." And we just couldn't stop crying even though she desperately tried. Meanwhile Alice rushed downstairs wanting to know what was going on and just like Camilla and Madison, she was done silent when she saw Alice.

128. Big Question Tess started to have second thoughts as she sat on the train to Upper Ashfields. She knew where Gabby’s office was, or at least she had the address in her phone in case of emergencies. She had a vague idea where to find the building, too, because she’d managed to run into Gabby unexpectedly when walking through a park with Spike. Would Gabby be angry to see Tess during work hours? It was hard to tell. Some people liked to keep their home and professional lives completely separate. But if she got into an online chat, there would be all kinds of questions about other messages she still hadn’t responded to, or even read. Tess thought that for her own mental health, she would be better not checking the messages on her phone – from Gabby or from anyone else – until she was sure that everything was sorted out, and she didn’t have any big worries again. She kept on reassuring herself that she was doing the right thing, but it was hard. She needed to make sure that this solution would work for everyone. She couldn’t just sweep Gabby’s needs under the rug, not when her cousin had tried so hard to make her feel comfortable. Not when Gabby really seemed to care, and had done her best to help Tess get over her problems. But while she walked across one of the many parks in Upper Ashfields, while she checked a map posted in one of the parks, and as she finally strode to the main entrance of the Fitzgerald Building, Tess was fighting an internal battle against all the social norms that told her she should let someone more experienced sort out this stuff. She told herself that voice was wrong, and there was no reason for her to listen to it. She needed to look after herself, and to look after Spike. She would never be comfortable unless she was doing it herself, and that realisation made everything different. What had changed, over the last few months, was that she knew now what she needed. She knew that letting someone take care of her would only make her feel stifled, and that taking care of her own problems let her feel free. The reception area was like corporate offices everywhere, she guessed. Although she’d rarely been in one of them before, she knew from film and TV that an office building would always have a big room with a bank of elevators and some obstructive person sitting behind a desk. In this case, the figure at the desk was a cute blonde just a couple of years older than Tess herself, probably fresh out of university. “Hey,” the receptionist said, which Tess guessed might not be a corporation-approved greeting. “What can we– Hmm, I don’t know you, and no smartbadge. Are you a visitor?” Tess mumbled for a second, before the words rearranged themselves in her mind in a way that made sense. This wasn’t any kind of head office. Almost everyone coming to the desk here would be coming from another branch of the same company, or from thirty other office buildings all over Upper Ashfields. This wasn’t the public-facing address for any company department, so the receptionist had initially assumed she was another employee coming over for a meeting or something. “Hi!” she said. “Sorry to show up like this, I guess you don’t get many random people walking in. I’m looking for my cousin, if she’s not in a meeting or something. I can wait.” “Oh, cool. I guess if you’re not corporate I don’t need the creepy customer-service smile and one-hundred-and-twenty-percent all business all the time attitude. Right?” Tess knew the girl was exaggerating, and she couldn’t help laughing about it. She was right, there was no reason to be formal here. And she’d correctly judged that Tess was nervous about coming into a family member’s place of work. She’d just responded appropriately, acting in a way that would make the visitor comfortable, by reminding her that even in a corporate office everyone was a human being with a real personality. Tess thought that was the most professional attitude to customer service that she’d ever seen, and she was starting to understand why SYL was the undisputed market leader in whatever it was that they did. “Yeah, thanks. Sorry, I know it’s not a normal thing to ask for. I mean, if I was asking to see my Dad that would be a little more normal, I guess. But I haven’t got one… I mean, my parents are out of the country, so my cousin’s being a stand-in mum, and that’s why I need to talk to her, it’s about a serious issue I wouldn’t be comfortable talking about on the phone.” “Don’t worry,” she said, and smiled. “It must be great having somebody to look after you like that, even if she’s not your real mom. And SYL is super flexible about how we do stuff here, putting work-life balance first. Vicky thinks it’s a really big deal letting the staff here take time to deal with whatever they need to, and everybody’s been super productive since it started. It’s one of the great things about working here. So… do you know your cousin’s extension number, or which office you need to go to?” “Umm…” Tess mumbled. “Not really. Can you look her up or something? It’s Gabby Noel. I think she’s–” “Oh, we all know Gabby,” the girl said with a little smirk. Tess didn’t know if that meant Gabby was well liked here, or if the other staff were having a joke at her expense. And she didn’t even know which she would prefer. But right now, her mind was so filled with serious things that she didn’t have the thoughts to spare for anything that wasn’t urgent. “I’ll page her on the calendar, and let her know to come down. Would you like something to read while you wait? I don’t know how long she’s likely to be.” Tess thanked her, but didn’t need anything to distract her. She didn’t need to sit down either, she didn’t want to get too comfortable. She kept on remembering what Spike was facing now, and she would have felt bad if she was just sitting there lost in her own thoughts rather than doing something. She knew it was irrational, and that pacing around in the lobby of Gabby’s building didn’t actually make her get there faster. But it didn’t make her feel like she was being lazy, and that had to be an improvement. “Gabby says can you go to the Plum meeting room,” the girl at the desk said, a minute or two later. She quickly pointed in the right direction, and the door clicked open to let Tess through. She turned around to say thanks, and then she was striding down the hallway, to a small room mostly decorated in shades of purple. She guessed stuff like that was better for visitors, who might not be sure they were in the right place unless it was really obvious. Tess stretched and pushed the door open, wincing slightly where her neck was stiff from too many nights sleeping in an almost-comfortable hospital chair. Gabby was already there, looking worried. “Tess!” she said. “Are you okay? I’ve not seen you in nearly a week, I’ve been out of my mind. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you all this time. Please tell me you’re okay.” “I’m okay,” Tess confirmed. “Did Ffrances tell you where I’ve been?” “She said you were in Pine Ridge, but she wouldn’t tell me why. You know what she’s like with confidentiality, treats everyone like one of her patients. I just want to know you’re safe.” “Of course…” Tess said, and then the words filtered into her mind. Ffrances hadn’t told Gabby that she was with Spike. Gabby might have thought Tess had been injured or something; and she would have hated being out of the loop. That seemed a little cruel, and Tess immediately wanted to correct her, to make her feel better. But then, would Gabby be angry with Tess for not telling her sooner? Would it make her less likely to agree to the question that was coming up? She decided that it would be better to leave that question until later. “I can look after myself.” “Are you sure? I heard there were police at the school, and–” “Don’t worry about it. It’s dealt with now. Spike’s stepfather is… a big problem. He’s been a problem for a while, and I’ve been doing my best to avoid any contact with the guy. Spike is usually his punching bag, and he just takes it because he’s worried Duke will hurt his mum. Cares so much about other people that he’s willing to just take a beating. But now it’s clear that this is just going to keep escalating. Duke found out somehow that I’ve been spending more time with Spike, and he wasn’t happy. So we’ve called the police, given them all the evidence they could ask for, and we hope they’re going to do something about it soon. But for now…” Tess took a deep breath. This was it, the question that mattered so much. And she just couldn’t find the words. “If there’s anything I can do,” Gabby said, probably just giving out platitudes. “If I could do something about that guy I would, but I’m only suited for more maternal kinds of help. Not confrontation. So if there’s anything I can do that would help you feel better, if you want to be little at home so you don’t have to think about it so much, then just–” “Spike’s moving in with us,” Tess spat it out, just to stop herself getting distracted with all her conflicting feelings about being little. She didn’t need to think about that now. “I mean… He’s not safe at home now, and I can’t help feeling like I was the trigger for this latest burst of rage. It’s my fault and I have to fix it. I’ve got his mum and the little kid out of there, so they’re not in danger anymore. Spike needs somewhere else to go, and we have a spare room. And I’m going to keep an eye on him, to make sure he puts his own safety first for once. I wanted to see you right away, so we can get it sorted out. If you can…” She couldn’t say anything more. When it came to it, she’d automatically put it as a decision, not a request, and she hoped Gabby wouldn’t be angry with that. But there wasn’t much she could do about it now. “You’re just inviting some little thug into my house without asking me? Isn’t there anywhere else he can go?” Tess took a deep breath. She didn’t want to antagonise Gabby, but she knew that whatever she said now would be hostile. There was no way she was leaving Spike without support, whether he was moving in at home or not. “He’s not a thug. He’s a child who needs protecting. I thought you were supposed to be the maternal one. Isn’t that what you just said? And if you say it’s not okay, yeah, we have somewhere else to go. But obviously I’d need to check with my parents as well if I’m moving out. Like I said, I’m not leaving him on his own. He’s already got himself hurt trying to protect me, and I’m not going to let that happen again. So please, tell him he can have the spare room.” She knew she’d gone too far. She couldn’t look at Gabby now, and just stared at her fingers twiddling in her lap. What would Gabby say? Was she going to fly off the handle again? “You’ll have to ask Ffrances,” Gabby said, and Tess’s heart leapt. She already knew what Ffrances would say. She suspected that Gabby was planning to let Ffrances say ‘no’ so she could be the good guy, but Tess was sure she wouldn’t find it so easy to blame her dislike for Spike on someone else this time. “I promise I’ll ask her tomorrow, but don’t get your hopes up.” “Thank you!” Tess almost squealed like a little kid, overjoyed by the answer she had least expected. She jumped up from her seat and ran closer to hug Gabby. That response seemed to surprise both of the cousins equally, but Tess couldn’t contain herself. After the week she’d just had, this was the best possible outcome. It would make some of her secrets a little harder to hide, but she could accept that nothing was ever perfect. And she had no doubt that she was doing exactly what needed to be done. When the hug ended, she backed away, just a little bit embarrassed. And she knew the gesture was something she would normally consider childish, so she was feeling just a little bit more childlike than normal now; the mild regressive effect of the suggestion that made her feel littler whenever she acted the part. “Thank you,” she said again, in a more thoughtful way this time. “So… you’re giving Ffrances the comic tomorrow? I heard rumours it’s getting released this weekend, and…” “Yeah. We’ll be out for lunch, I want to make it as romantic as possible. But I promise you’ll get a chance to read it with her when she gets home. Or maybe you can be a little kid, and I’ll read to you. To both of you, if you want.” Tess thought she would prefer to read for herself, but she knew how much the whole little kid thing meant to Gabby. And to Ffrances too. The week before, Gabby had finally agreed to try babying her girlfriend, and Tess got the impression that they had all really enjoyed it, even if she’d ended up volunteering to do the cooking and cleaning so that Gabby could take the fun parts of being Mommy. If Gabby wanted to try babying both of them this time, so she could read to both of them, Ffrances’s enjoyment coupled with Tess’s excitement to find out how the story ended would make it worthwhile. She didn’t know how Spike would fit into that scenario; whether he would want to be Daddy again, and if Gabby would be willing to share her little girls. But that was a bridge they could cross when they came to it. “Maybe,” she said diplomatically. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll do everything I can to make it easier for you.” “Save your gratitude for after we ask Ffrances,” Gabby said. “I don’t think she’ll be as flexible as me. Now, come on. I’ll take you home, and you can tell me what you think of my outfit for tomorrow. And it’s been a long week, so maybe we can see if you feel up to being a little girl, so you can relax a little. Tess just nodded. She should probably indulge Gabby once, to smooth the path, and she wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

The crinkle of the plastic wrapper was a sharp, static-filled sound that sliced through the dark bedroom, echoing off the plastered walls with a volume that made Toby’s heart skip a beat every single night. He quickly stepped his feet into the stretchy, fabric-like sides, pulling the heavy, reassuring bulk up over his hips until the thick padding settled snugly between his thighs. To Toby, they were a contradiction. He hated them because they were a physical symbol of his deepest, most embarrassing secret—a daily reminder that his body simply refused to wake up when his bladder was full. Yet, he loved them because they meant absolute safety. They meant he could drift off to sleep without the looming terror of waking up in a cold, swampy bed. For Toby, waking up dry was a mythological occurrence. He could count on one hand the number of times he had opened his eyes in the morning to find the padding inside his Goodnites still light and airy. Almost every day began the same way: a heavy, warm, and swollen bundle of gel and pulp that sagged under his pajamas. Over the years, Toby developed a sixth sense for finding others who shared his affliction. It began when he was eight, during a family gathering at his cousin Marcus’s house. Marcus was a year younger, a loud, athletic kid who seemed entirely fearless. Toby, left alone in Marcus’s bedroom while the other boys played video games downstairs, found himself drawn to the dresser. It was an involuntary impulse born of a desperate need to feel less alone. He slipped his hand beneath a neat stack of hooded sweatshirts in the bottom drawer. His fingers brushed against something thick and plasticky. He pulled it out, his heart hammering against his ribs. It was a blue-and-grey Goodnite, decorated with athletic stripes. A wave of intense, dizzying relief washed over Toby. He carefully slid the pull-up back into its hiding place, his mind racing. A few weeks later, he practically begged his mother to let him have a sleepover at Marcus’s house. When the night finally arrived, and the two boys were left alone in Marcus’s bedroom to wind down, Toby decided to take the leap. As they were changing into their pajamas, Toby reached into his duffel bag and pulled his own Goodnite out from inside a rolled-up t-shirt. "Hey," Toby said, his voice trembling slightly. "Look." Marcus stopped buttoning his pajama shirt and stared. For a second, Toby feared he had made a terrible mistake. The air in the room grew thick and suffocating, loaded with the sudden, terrifying exposure of their hidden vulnerabilities. "What's that supposed to mean?" Marcus asked, narrowing his eyes, his voice dropping an octave as defensiveness flared up in him. "Nothing, I just... I saw them. In your drawer," Toby stammered, his face burning hot as he clutched the blue-and-grey pull-up tighter against his stomach. "When we were here last month. I wasn't snooping, I swear. I just... I didn't think anyone else did." Marcus’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the floor, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The silence stretched between them, heavy and trembling with the risk of cruel childhood mockery. Toby braced himself for the teasing, the inevitable cruel laughter that usually defined their schoolyard hierarchy. Instead, Marcus’s shoulder suddenly dropped, and the defensive posture melted away, replaced by a massive, disbelieving grin that broke across his face. "No way!" Marcus whispered, his voice pitching up in astonishment as he lunged past Toby for his dresser. He yanked the bottom drawer open, shoved the sweatshirts aside, and pulled his own out, brandishing it like a flag of truce. "You wear them too?" "Every night," Toby said, the heavy weight on his chest evaporating in an instant. That night was one of the happiest of Toby's childhood. For once, there was no shame. They wore them openly, running around the bedroom in their t-shirts and diapers, laughing and wrestling without a care in the world. When they finally climbed into their respective sleeping bags, Toby felt entirely safe. The next morning, before Marcus's parents came in to wake them, they stood by the closet and compared their wetness. "Whoa, yours is way heavier," Marcus remarked, pointing at the sagging front of Toby's Goodnite. "Yeah, I always wet a ton," Toby said proudly, lifting the heavy waistband. Marcus's was only damp in the front, but Toby’s was completely saturated, cold and heavy to the touch. It was a bizarre ritual, but to Toby, it was the only time he felt normal. He sought out that feeling wherever he could. Over the next few years, he discovered several other friends who wore them. He found a stash in his friend Ben’s bathroom cabinet while pretending to look for band-aids. He found a single, crumpled one in the trash can of his classmate Ethan’s room, buried beneath empty juice boxes. Every time he made a discovery, he would orchestrate a sleepover. The script was always the same: Toby would reveal his secret, the friend would sigh with relief, they would wear them openly, and in the morning, they would compare. But Toby was almost always the wettest. He rarely woke up dry, whereas his friends would occasionally have dry nights. He grew to resent it when someone younger than him—like Marcus, who proudly announced at a Thanksgiving dinner a year later that he "didn't need the night-pants anymore"—managed to beat him to getting dry. Toby felt left behind, trapped in a body that wouldn't grow up. But those comfortable, open sleepovers were rare compared to the ones with boys who had no idea. Sleeping over at a "dry" friend’s house was an exercise in high-stakes espionage. When Toby packed his sleeping bag for a night at his friend Connor's house, he had to hide the Goodnite in the deepest corner of his pack, wrapped in three layers of grocery bags to keep them from rustling. At Connor's house, the anxiety began the moment the sun went down. "Hey Toby, grab a soda from the cooler, we're grabbing the controllers!" Connor shouted from the living room rug, tossing a red can through the air. Toby caught it, his throat instantly parched with a desperate thirst, but he forced himself to set it down on the coffee table untouched. "Nah, I'm good, I had too much sugar earlier," Toby lied smoothly, his stomach churning with anxiety. He would drink as little water as possible all evening, while the other boys gulped down sodas with reckless abandon. When it came time for bed, he had to wait. He would pretend he forgot his toothbrush, slip into the bathroom with his duffel bag, lock the door, and run the faucet at full blast to drown out the loud, crinkling screech of the plastic waistband expanding as he pulled it on. Once it was on, he had to walk back to the bedroom with a stiff, unnatural stride. Underneath his loose-fitting fleece pajama pants, the padding felt like a beacon, screaming his secret to the world. He would immediately slide into his sleeping bag, pulling the zipper all the way to his chin. Every time he rolled over in his sleep, the crinkle of the material felt deafeningly loud in the quiet room. Sometimes, his luck ran out. During a weekend trip with his Cub Scout pack, Toby woke up in his sleeping bag to a warm, damp sensation spreading down his thigh. The Goodnite had leaked through the leg barrier. Panic, sharp and cold, flooded his chest. He lay frozen in his sleeping bag, listening to the breathing of the other three boys in his tent. Slowly, agonizingly, he shifted his weight. The sleeping bag fabric was damp. He had to act fast. He waited until the early morning light began to filter through the nylon tent walls. While the other boys were still snoring, Toby slipped out of his bag, holding his pajama pants tight against his leg to hide the wet spot. He took his dry clothes and bolted for the campground bathrooms. He threw the soaked Goodnite into the bottom of the deep sanitary bin, washed his leg in the sink, and changed into fresh clothes. When he returned to the tent, he spent fifteen minutes aggressively rolling up his sleeping bag, claiming he wanted to "get a head start on packing," secretly locking the damp interior away from his tentmates' eyes. Toby both hated and loved those pull-ups. He hated the crinkle, the leaks, the elaborate lies, and the constant fear of exposure. But he loved the absolute safety of them. When he wore them, he didn't have to worry about ruining someone else's mattress. Everything changed halfway through his fifth-grade year. His parents, frustrated by the lack of progress and convinced Toby was relying too heavily on the "crutch" of the diapers, decided it was time to stop buying them. They called him into the kitchen after dinner, the air thick with an unspoken confrontation. "You're almost in middle school, Toby," his father said gently but firmly at the kitchen table, sliding a small cardboard box toward him across the laminate surface. "We need to try something else." Toby stared at the cardboard box, his breath catching in his throat. "What is that?" he asked, already dreading the answer. "It's a bedwetting alarm, buddy," his mother added, her eyes softening with sympathetic pity that only made Toby feel worse. "The pediatrician said it's time to train your brain. You can do this." Inside the box was a bedwetting alarm. It consisted of a small plastic sensor that clipped onto his underwear, connected by a thin, white wire to a plastic control box that pinned to his pajama collar. The moment even a drop of moisture hit the sensor, a loud, high-pitched siren would wail directly in his ear. Toby hated it immediately. The transition was brutal. When he wore his Goodnites, his accidents were silent, absorbed instantly. Now, his accidents were loud, chaotic, and humiliating. The alarm would shriek at two in the morning, blasting Toby out of a deep sleep. He would scramble to unclip the sensor, his heart racing, only to realize he had already wet. The worst part was that the alarm didn't stop the wetness; it only caught it as it started. Instead of waking up in a warm, dry diaper, Toby was now waking up in a wet bed. He went from wetting every single night in his Goodnites to wetting about three or four nights a week with the alarm. It was technically progress, but to Toby, it felt like a disaster. Now, his sheets were constantly in the washing machine. He spent his mornings stripping his mattress, sliding the heavy, waterproof mattress pad off to be wiped down, and smelling the faint, persistent odor of vinegar and laundry detergent. He felt naked and unprotected. At the beginning of the summer after fifth grade, Toby was invited to a sleepover at Julian’s house. Julian was his oldest friend; they had known each other since the first day of first grade. They also shared a secret. Back in first grade, while playing hide-and-seek at Julian’s house, Toby had squeezed himself into Julian’s bedroom closet. Squinting in the dim light, Toby’s foot had brushed against a large cardboard box on the floor. He bent down and peered inside. It was full of Goodnites. When Julian opened the closet door to find him, Toby had looked up, holding one of the pull-ups. "Don't worry," Toby had said instantly, his voice small and trembling with fear of judgment. "I wear pull-ups too." Julian's eyes had softened instantly, all the tension leaving his face as he let out a long breath. "Really?" he had whispered back. From that day on, their friendship was cemented by their shared secret. They had countless sleepovers over the next four years. Toby would always pack his Goodnites, and Julian would have his ready. But as the years went on, a strange pattern emerged. Every morning of their sleepovers, Toby would wake up with a heavily soaked Goodnite. But Julian’s pull-up was always completely dry. Every single time. Toby, sitting on the floor of Julian's room, would look at Julian’s dry, lightweight diaper and then down at his own heavy, sagging one. "Julian, why do you even wear them if you never wet?" Toby would ask, genuinely perplexed. Julian would shrug, looking a little embarrassed, and say, "Because sometimes I have emergencies at night." Toby never really understood what that meant—a night emergency sounded like a fire drill—but he didn't press it. He was just glad he had a friend who wore them. But the sleepover after fifth grade was different. It was the first time they had hung out since Toby’s parents had taken him out of Goodnites. Toby arrived at Julian's house with his duffel bag, his stomach churning with a mix of pride and deep anxiety. They went up to Julian’s bedroom to drop off Toby's things. Julian, wanting to get their gear ready for the night, unzipped Toby's duffel bag and began sorting through his pajamas. He paused, digging his hands down to the very bottom of the bag. He looked up, confused, his brow furrowing. "There’s no pull-up," Julian said, holding up Toby's bare cotton boxers. Toby felt a sudden, sharp surge of competitive pride. All those years of being the wet one, the one who always had the heaviest diaper, rushed to his head. He wanted, just once, to feel like he was the one who was succeeding. "Yeah," Toby said, puffing out his chest and offering a smug, defensive smile. "I don't need them anymore. I'm dry." It was a lie, or at least a massive exaggeration. He was only dry a few nights a week, and he still wet more often than not. But his parents wouldn't let him wear them, so in his mind, he had to play the part. He wanted Julian to be jealous. He wanted to beat Julian to the finish line of growing up. Julian looked at Toby for a long moment, a flicker of shock and maybe a little bit of sadness crossing his face. The atmosphere in the room turned strangely heavy. "Oh," Julian said quietly, dropping his gaze back to the bag. "Wow. That’s cool." That night, they played video games, ate pizza, and watched movies until their eyes grew heavy. When it was time for bed, Julian went into his closet and came out wearing his usual Goodnite. Toby, wearing only his regular cotton boxer shorts, felt suddenly exposed and incredibly vulnerable. He climbed onto the spare twin bed in Julian’s room, pulling the blankets tight around his waist. I'll be fine, Toby told himself, his heart beating a rapid rhythm. I'll just wake up if I have to go. But Toby’s body didn't work that way. Deep in the middle of the night, he drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep. He woke up at four in the morning to a sensation of intense, spreading warmth. For a fleeting second, he thought he was at home, and that the alarm was about to go off. But there was no alarm. There was only the cold, harsh reality of Julian’s spare bed. Toby lay frozen, his eyes wide in the dark. The warmth had quickly turned to a freezing, heavy dampness. He shifted slightly, and the sound of wet fabric squishing beneath his hips made his stomach drop. He had soaked the bed. Not just a little leak—it was a massive, deep puddle that had saturated his boxers, the sheets, and undoubtedly the mattress beneath. Panic, absolute and suffocating, seized him. He looked over at the other bed. Julian was fast asleep, snoring softly, completely protected in his dry Goodnite. Toby began to shiver, the cold wetness clinging to his skin. He couldn't face Julian in the morning. He couldn't bear the thought of Julian waking up to find his best friend standing over a ruined mattress, exposed as a liar and a baby. Quietly, trembling so hard his teeth chattered, Toby slipped out of the wet bed. He crept down the stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet, and found his duffel bag in the hallway. He grabbed his phone. He squeezed himself into the dark laundry room, closed the door, and dialed his mother's number. "Mom?" Toby whispered, tears finally burning his eyes as she answered with a sleepy groan on the fourth ring. "Mom, you have to come get me. Right now." "Toby? What's wrong? Are you sick?" her voice crackled through the speaker, laced with sudden, sharp panic. "Just please come get me," he sobbed quietly into the dark. "I had an accident. Please." Thirty minutes later, Toby saw the headlights of his mother's car pull into the driveway, cutting beams of light across the living room blinds. He slipped out of Julian’s front door, leaving his wet pajamas and the ruined bed behind, and ran to the car. He didn't say a word the entire ride home, staring blankly out the window as the streetlights blurred into streaks of yellow. The fallout was immediate and devastating. The next day, Toby's mom called Julian's mom to apologize and offer to pay for a new mattress protector. Toby never heard the details of that conversation, but he knew what it meant. Julian knew. Julian knew Toby had lied, and Julian knew Toby had ruined his bed. When school started in the fall, Julian wouldn't look at him in the hallways. If Toby sat at his lunch table, Julian would quietly pack up his tray without a word and move to the other side of the cafeteria. The silence between them was deafening. Toby spent the rest of his middle school years regretting that night. He wished, more than anything, that he had just told Julian the truth. He wished he had said, My parents took my Goodnites away, but I still have accidents. Can I borrow one of yours? Julian would have said yes. Julian would have handed him one, and they would have slept without fear. Instead, pride had cost him his best friend. As the months turned into years, Toby's bedwetting did begin to improve, but it didn't disappear. It came in unpredictable waves. He would go three weeks completely dry, feeling a surge of hope that his body had finally figured it out, only to wet three nights in a row the following week. This made overnight events an ongoing nightmare. During a weeklong sleepaway summer camp before sixth grade, Toby lived in fear. He couldn't bring his alarm—the blaring siren would alert the entire cabin. He had to go unprotected. He managed to stay dry for the first four nights, but on the fifth and sixth nights, he wet his sleeping bag. He woke up early both times, stuffing his face in his pillow to keep from crying, before dragging his sleeping bag out to the clothesline under the guise of "airing it out because it smelled like camp." Luckily, the other boys were too distracted by sports and outdoor activities to notice. The same thing happened the summer before seventh grade. Two wet nights, two frantic mornings of hiding the damp spots, spraying his sleeping bag with heavy body spray, and praying no one would smell the truth. He spent those camp trips wishing, with a desperate intensity, that he could just wear Goodnites again. He missed the peace of mind. He missed the quiet, soft padding that kept his secrets safe. His first year of Boy Scouts was no different. During a winter cabin camping trip, Toby woke up in the middle of the night to the familiar, dreadful dampness inside his sleeping bag. He lay there, staring at the wooden rafters of the cabin, listening to the wind howling outside. A few feet away, one of his patrol mates, a quiet boy named Tyler, shuffled in his bunk. Toby watched through squinted eyes as Tyler sat up, climbed down from his bunk, and walked to his backpack. In the dim light of the cabin's emergency exit sign, Toby saw Tyler pull a large, familiar blue-and-grey pull-up from his bag. Tyler quickly slipped it on under his sweatpants and climbed back into bed. Toby felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of jealousy. Tyler was allowed to protect himself. Tyler didn't have to worry about his sleeping bag smelling like ammonia in the morning. Toby wished, with everything he had, that he had a pack of Goodnites in his own bag. It wasn't until he was halfway through his eighth-grade year that the waves finally subsided. The dry spells grew longer, stretching from weeks into months, until one day, Toby realized he hadn't wet the bed in over half a year. His body had finally grown up. Yet, there was another path Toby’s life could have taken. In a different world, Toby’s parents didn't buy the bedwetting alarm halfway through fifth grade. Recognizing that his body was simply developing at its own pace, they decided to let him keep his dignity. They continued to buy the large boxes of Goodnites, tucking them quietly into his closet every month. In this alternate life, Toby entered middle school as a committed, full-time bedwetter. As he grew, so did the challenges of keeping his secret. By the time he was twelve, he had outgrown the standard sizes. His mother had to start ordering the Extra-Large size online, which came in plain, discreet boxes. These teen-sized Goodnites were different. They didn't have the colorful skateboard designs of his childhood; they were a more solid, low-key pattern.  The stakes of hiding them became astronomically higher. In sixth and seventh grade, boys were no longer oblivious. They were hyper-aware of each other's bodies, quick to tease, and brutal with their jokes. During a seventh-grade birthday party at his classmate Marcus's house—not his cousin, but a popular kid from his soccer team—Toby faced his ultimate test. The boys were all sleeping in the basement on air mattresses, casting long, eerie shadows under the glow of a small television. Toby spent the entire evening in a state of high-alert panic. He had packed his XL Goodnite at the very bottom of his sleeping bag, pre-stuffed inside the legs of his pajama pants so he wouldn't have to pull them up in the dark. "Hey Toby, stop hogging the charger, toss it over!" Marcus yelled across the dark room, jolting Toby from his thoughts. "Yeah, coming!" Toby called back, his heart hammering against his ribs. When the lights finally went out around midnight, Toby waited. He lay perfectly still, listening to the boys whisper and laugh about girls and video games. Slowly, the voices died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of sleeping teenagers. Toby sat up. The air mattress squeaked beneath him, a terrifyingly loud sound in the dead of night. He froze, holding his breath until he was sure no one had stirred. He slowly slid his legs out of his sleeping bag and pulled his pajama pants down. He reached into the bag, his fingers finding the thick, plain white pull-up. He began to slip his feet through the leg holes. Crinkle. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent basement. "Yo, what was that?" a voice muttered sharply from across the room. It was Logan, one of the soccer players, sitting up on his elbow. Toby’s heart leaped into his throat, choking him. He sat frozen, one leg in the pull-up, his hands gripping the waistband as sweat immediately broke out across his forehead. "Just... shifting my air mattress," Toby whispered back, trying desperately to keep his voice steady despite the terror gripping his chest. "Sorry." "Stupid things are so loud," Logan grumbled, dropping his head back onto his pillow. Toby waited another agonizing five minutes, his chest heaving. Then, with microscopic slowness, he pulled the Goodnite up over his hips. The plastic sides stretched, making tiny, sharp popping sounds that made his sweat run cold. He finally got his pajama pants back up and slid back into his sleeping bag, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. He had survived, but the fear of being caught was a heavy, suffocating weight. Morning brought a new set of problems. Toby woke up at 6:00 AM, his diaper heavy and warm. He couldn't just walk to the bathroom; the sag in his pajama pants would be obvious. He had to use the "sleeping bag slide." He wriggled his way out of the sleeping bag, keeping his hips low to the floor, and immediately grabbed his duffel bag. He hurried to the basement bathroom and locked the door with a sharp click. Replacing the wet diaper with clean underwear was easy, but disposal was a nightmare. He couldn't leave a giant, soaked teen diaper in Marcus’s bathroom trash can for his mom to find. Toby had prepared for this. He pulled a black plastic garbage bag from his duffel, wrapped the wet Goodnite tightly inside it, tied it in a double knot, and stuffed it deep into his duffel bag, buried beneath his dirty clothes. He would have to carry his own trash home. Despite the intense anxiety, Toby preferred this alternate reality to the one where he had to face wet sheets and ruined friendships. His Goodnites were his armor. They allowed him to attend the eighth-grade class trip to Washington, D.C., where he shared a hotel room with three other boys. To manage the D.C. trip, Toby had to become a master of logistics. Every night, he would volunteer to take the last shower. He would lock himself in the bathroom, take his shower, and then put on his XL Goodnite under a baggy pair of basketball shorts. The thick waistband of the pull-up was hidden beneath the drawstrings of his shorts. He would walk out of the bathroom, climb straight into his bed, and pull the heavy hotel duvet over his lap. In the mornings, he would wake up early, before the hotel alarm went off. He would slip back into the bathroom, strip off the wet diaper, wrap it in a grocery bag, and walk down to the lobby. He would casually stroll past the front desk and toss the bag into the large trash can near the elevators, blending in with the tourists. It was exhausting, a constant mental chess match, but it kept his secret safe. He never had a leak, and he never ruined a hotel bed. In this timeline, his friend Julian remained his best friend. Because Toby’s parents had never forced him out of Goodnites, Toby had never been in a position where he had to lie to Julian to feel superior. During their sleepovers, they continued their comfortable, judgment-free routine. By the time Toby was fourteen, entering his freshman year of high school, the bedwetting finally began to taper off. His nighttime accidents became a weekly occurrence, then a monthly one, until eventually, the XL Goodnites sat unused in his closet, gathering dust. Looking back on those years, whether in the timeline where he struggled without them or the one where he hid them as a teenager, Toby realized something profound. The shame he had felt was a shadow, a heavy cloud that didn't belong to him. Bedwetting wasn't a choice, and the crinkly, protective pull-ups weren't a defeat. They were just a quiet, plastic bridge that got him safely to the other side of growing up.