Ishigreensa

Sean and Susan's character. They want to believe that the mother was forced somehow into it because they give you the benefit of the doubt until you show your real colors. You saw, how Sean didn't immediately attack Dan when he kept calling Cait stupid in the beginning and acting like Cait would pee on Sean on purpose or something. He gave him the benefit of the doubt until they started to see what kind of person Cait was from his abuse, and then really turned on him when they found out at the hospital, that he had to have hurt her... on purpose. Maire is sounding right now, like she was controlled. So, they are being cautious with her around the kids, but they are willing to give her the benefit of the doubt until she does something to lose their trust.

Chapter 16 Inquisitive Kids and Challenges to Rules Eight-year-old Michael was Erica and Jim's son. He sat just on the outside of the last seat in the back of the van. Michael had a partial view of Greinne, who was sitting on the outside of the second seat in the back part of the van, closer to the side doors. He whispered up at her, his voice high-pitched, cute, and innocent. 'Gee, you kind of pretty.' Greinne looked back around the seat at him, and there was silence for a moment or two before she smiled at him. I didn’t hear what she said to him, but there seemed to be a small peace for a moment. “But...,” the little boy seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking down. “How come you peed the bed last night?” Greinne was probably really red in the face, and she didn’t say anything for a bit. Erica whispered harshly. “Michael. That’s not nice. Apologize.” “It’s okay,” Greinne said quietly, her voice sort of sniffling. “I knew I was going to get caught when Sorsche didn’t sleep with me... eventually. I’m sorry. I just....” Sorsche turned around in her seat on the otherside of Susan in the same row as Greinne. “She’s wet the bed since she can remember, or at least I can remember. She doesn’t do it on purpose, but no one really knows why. Usually, I just get in trouble for it.” “Why would you get in trouble for something your sister does, little lady?” Sorsche got quiet. “Like I told you,” Susan responded, looking over at them, too. “The old man was a piece of work. I don’t know everything yet, but I have learned that he normally blamed Sorsche and Cait for most of the problems at home, and he did things like force the elder girl sitting on the other side of me to hit her sisters with the belt.” Erica seemed to get a lump in her throat. “Michael, you know how hard it is for you to cook by yourself?” Susan whispered kindly towards him. “Yeah? Well, I actually don’t know anything about doing that, except making cereal and toast.” “Well,that’s how hard it is for these girls to act normally. They don’t do what they do on purpose. They are actually pretty scared to do things that you and even your little sister do naturally. Aoife might be a little different story. She seemed to not really get in trouble as much, but like Cait, I guess he would actually hit her for getting out of bed in the early morning, so Cait had to sit there in her bed... and it just happened when she couldn’t wait long enough.” I turned towards the back, not very easily, and not so I could see them all the way, because my stomach hurt and my hip was still giving me trouble when I wanted to turn, but enough to let them see I was listening. “Actually, I had to wet the bedding. If I didn’t, Daddy thought I peed somewhere else in the house and made puddles, so to prove I didn’t, I’d just wet the bedding on purpose so he wouldn’t think I disobeyed and made a puddle.” Jim’s hands seemed to tighten on the wheel. Erica looked back at us from the very front. Actually, I was in the row close to the front, so I could see her the best. “Daddy thought it was Sorche because Greinne and Sorsche slept together. I think Greinne tried to tell Daddy at least once, maybe a year or so ago, that she was the one peeing the bed, but then Sorsche got in worse trouble because Daddy said she put Greinne up to taking the blame just to avoid punishment.” Jim frowned and narrowed his eyes at Erinne. “Did you know? That it was Greinne and not Sorsche?” “Yeah, I did. Sorsche and I shared a room until last year, but then Greinne slept with Cait and Aoife slept with Sorsche sometimes, so Daddy said Aoife was getting bigger, and he said it must have been Sorsche doing it, even though Aoife still had accidents sometimes. And he said Cait was the one that peed on Greinne.” Jim sighed. “Did you ever tell your dad what you knew?” Erinne shook her head. “Daddy wouldn’t listen to her,” I spoke up. “Sometimes, Greinne got in trouble for trying to protect me, and Erinne was his favorite, and then Aoife, so why would she make him not have her be his favorite? She just didn’t say stuff around Daddy because that how you stay his favorite. He was nice to me if I didn’t argue and just agreed I stupid at school, and I just pee how he tells me, so I don’t make a mess everywhere in the house, so just do it sitting where I am. That’s why I pee my pants on purpose... and sometimes....” I stopped myself. It was hard to admit I did that, too, on purpose all the time. Not all the time, all the time, but enough that it felt like I was always dirty—that I pooped my pants. Jim let out some air from his lungs as he drove, getting a bit quiet. Erinne was quiet. The whole car had this invisible cloud in it that made breathing in it very visible and a deliberate act. Sean put a hand around me, and he whispered. “You’re safe, now, Cait. You are never going to go through that kind of Abuse again. None of you are. If you need time to catch up with where you are, you ARE allowed to keep wetting or pooping your pants until you are ready to stop, or until your body is normal again, whatever is later, sweetie. Susan and I don’t mind.” Susan patted Greinne’s leg. “And we’ll get you to see a specialist later, after we are done with all of this stuff. We need to first make sure you were not injured by that man’s actions, and make sure he can’t interfere with you girls again. Then, we need to make sure that your wetting the bed isn’t some symptom of something worse physically. Once we are sure you are going to be okay, that way, then it won’t matter how long it takes for you to stop wetting the bed to Sean and me, sweetie. Different kids grow at different rates. The most important thing is that we make sure you are not wetting because of damage or infection, because we can probably do something to stop that, okay?” Greinne was quiet, but I think she nodded. “I was sure it was Sorsche that wet the bed,” I heard Mama say from the back of the car, furthest from the little aisle we used to get up and down the back. “Mama,” Greinne whispered. “I tried to tell you that it was me just a couple of months ago.” “Sweetheart, I know you were trying to keep Sorsche out of trouble, though. Did you really think I’d believe that when I knew you knew Daddy was really upset with her already because she pooped her pants at school the day before?” Erica shook her head and frowned. Jim’s grip on the wheel loosened and tightened a few times. I couldn’t tell if he was mad at someone. Maybe he was struggling to understand us. Maybe he was going to throw us out, afraid we were all going to pee in his car right now. I shivered. “It’s okay,” Sean's low growl of something primal like a bear responded, placing a hand over mine, holding my hands in my lap. “You’re okay, baby.” “Well,” there seemed to be a final note in Jim’s voice that was clear he didn’t want to hear anymore about this right now. “Where were we going to get the pizza, then?” “Shakey’s Pizza?” Sean called up to him. “I like their pizza, and they have a reasonable price for larger groups.” “Is it my turn to get the beer?” Jim was clearly steering the conversation away from the drama of being a Weimer girl. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be drinking in front of the children.” Sean’s voice was a little quieter and a little more, like he had been in church or something. “The children have been exposed to bad things that came from a man around the drink.” Jim nodded. “No beer, understood.” “I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t,” Sean seemed to apologize as he tried to back out of making Jim observe the same rules. “No, I get it,” Jim said, not seeming mad or anything at all. “I don’t think you are wrong at all, and I want to support you any way I can. You and Susan..., well, I don’t think I’d ever have let Erica talk me into taking on the kind of baggage you are dealing with.” Michael’s voice was tiny and confused. “We don’t have any bags, Daddy.” "No, honey, not the kind you are thinking, we don't," Erica patted his shoulder lightly. "What Daddy means is that the girls have had a lot of trouble growing up, and that trouble has caused them to be scared and act in different ways." "They aren't broken," Sean interjected, his voice firm, protective. "Just...rusty on how to live without fear." "No one said that they were broken," Jim sighed. "It's just... it's going to take a lot... to teach them right from wrong." He looked to the left before putting on his left click-clicker for the light to say we were going to go that way. "He's right, though," Susan sighed. "I mean, I don't know much about that man, but he didn't teach them right. He didn't teach them anything right." "I know, Suze," Sean whispered back to her. "I know. I mean, there was a reason that he didn't let Maire visit us in the last couple of years, and now we know. It was all about control." The car bumped over a rough spot in the road, making me flinch slightly against Sean's shoulder. My hips vibrated a little, and my tummy hurt a tiny bit. I held my stomach, hoping that the pain wasn't anything bad happening. Just then, Greinne's soft gasp made me glance back towards her. She had gone stiff and wide-eyed, her hands clutching at the seat fabric. A slow, dark stain spread beneath her on the vinyl seat, soaking into her sweatpants. She didn't make a sound, but her breathing hitched unevenly, her shoulders trembling slightly. Susan noticed immediately and reached over without hesitation, squeezing Greinne's knee gently. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. "You went right through that, though, honey. Didn't you have a diaper on?" Greinne's face was crimson. She neither said she did nor that she didn't. But I remembered that Daddy said that Diapers were for dirty kids or babies, and he wasn't raising dirty kids, so even though Sorsche wet the bed, he thought, and at school, and I made puddles, we were not allowed to wear them. "No," I answered for her in almost a whisper. "Daddy said they were for babies and dirty kids, and he wasn't raising dirty kids." "Honey," Sean whispered to me. "I'm pretty sure the nurse put it on her." "...And... I think she took it off when they took her out of the room to talk to her privately. I don't think she left it on." A tear rolled down Greinne's cheek, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white. The van smelled sharply of urine now, the scent mixing with the stale air conditioning. Erica cracked a window open slightly without comment, her fingers lingering on the button as if deciding whether to roll it down further. "What's done is done, sweetheart," Susan said, kissing the side of her head. "It's not that big of a deal." "Are we turning around?" Jim asked. "I don't think so," Sean sighed. "I'm sure she'll be okay for a little bit, if we just try to act like it wasn't an issue." Greinne's breath shuddered unevenly, her shoulders hunched forward as if trying to disappear. The wet spot beneath her gleamed faintly under passing streetlights, the vinyl seat making quiet sticking sounds whenever she shifted slightly. Susan rummaged in her purse with one hand while keeping the other resting on Greinne's knee—not gripping, just present. "Got it," Susan murmured, pulling out a crumpled fast-food napkin. She dabbed at Greinne's thighs with methodical gentleness, the paper soaking up what it could. "See? Not so bad." Her tone was matter-of-fact, the same way she might remark on spilled juice. "You... you touched my pee." Greinne looked up at Susan with curiosity as much as with embarrassment. "Don't you feel gross?" Susan snorted softly, shaking her head. "Honey, this is nothing." She crumpled the napkin and tucked it into a plastic bag from her purse, sealing it with a twist. "We live on a farm, and I've cleaned up far worse, trust me." Greinne blinked rapidly, her breath hitching again—not from shame now, but something closer to wonder. The streetlights flickered across her tear-streaked face as she whispered, "But Daddy said—" "I know what he said," Susan cut in gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Greinne’s ear. "And every word of it was wrong." The van hit another pothole, sloshing the puddle beneath Greinne slightly. Susan didn’t even flinch. From the corner of my eye, I saw Michael watching, his nose wrinkled. Erica caught his expression and leaned over, murmuring something too low to hear. His face cleared slightly, though he still eyed Greinne’s wet seat with childish fascination. Sean’s thumb rubbed slow circles over my knuckles as the tension in the van shifted—less suffocating now, edged instead with exhaustion and the quiet relief that came when storm clouds finally broke. Greinne slumped against Susan, her damp sweatpants pressing into the older woman’s jeans. Susan didn’t pull away. I sighed in the comfort that I knew that Susan wouldn't hit her or even yell at her, and when Sean saw how bad it was, he wouldn't make her feel small for it. He says, accidents just are... well... like weather? Anyway, I knew he wouldn't be mad. I just hoped Jim wasn't too mad. The smell was still strong and deep in the van, and I wrinkled my nose a little as it mixed with the pizza smell we picked up. Greinne sat stiffly, her wet sweatpants sticking to the vinyl seat beneath her, her face still flushed with embarrassment. Susan had given her a sweater to tie around her waist, but it did little to hide the dampness. Sean got up from his seat, and he started to help everyone out the back.... "Go ahead, Aoife, you first," he whispered to her. Aoife hesitated at the van's edge, her bare toes curling against the curb. The neon lights of Shakey's Pizza flickered across her face, painting her freckles orange and green in turns. She glanced back at Greinne, still frozen in her wet seat, then at me—her eyes asking a silent question I couldn't answer. "Don't worry about your sisters," Sean whispered down to her. I have a plan to help Greinne, and neither of them will get in trouble for what they can't help, okay?" Aoife nodded slowly, then took a deep breath and stepped out onto the pavement. The rest of us watched her go—tiny and unsure—toward the bright lights and laughter spilling from the pizza parlor. Susan was already moving, taking the oversized flannel shirt from my shoulders, the one that Sean had put on me since last night, and wrapping it around Greinne's waist like a makeshift shield. "Sorry, Cait, but we want Greinne to be comfortable, don't we?" Susan whispered. "We'll pick up another shirt at the house when one of us goes home tonight." I nodded. The flannel shirt hung low on Greinne's hips, the hem brushing mid-thigh as she stood on trembling legs. A damp patch darkened the vinyl where she'd been sitting—the shape vaguely starburst-like under the overhead dome light. Sean grabbed a stack of napkins from the glove compartment and began blotting at it without comment, his movements efficient. Greinne watched, her fingers twisting in the too-long sleeves. "It's okay," Jim finally came around and noticed what had been done. "We have two little ones, honey. More than once, the seats have been wet on during family trips. It's not going to hurt the van that much." Erinne looked back at Greinne, and then suddenly came around the side door of the van towards her. Greinne flinched—just slightly—but Erinne didn’t raise her hand. Instead, she knelt down and started untying her own sweater from around her waist. "Here," Erinne murmured, draping it over Greinne’s shoulders. "It’ll cover better." The fabric smelled faintly of lavender— Sean noticed that the sweater actually came down just far enough that he decided to remove Greinne's sweats so she was just in wet panties for a moment, and then he pulled the sweater over. It was a little short, but it did cover her panties... at least. "Just don't jump around, and it will cover your panties, and will be more comfortable to wear than wet pants. We'll stop by Jim and Erica's again on the way to the hospital to get you some clean panties and some pants, okay, baby?" Greinne nodded stiffly, her fingers clutching Erinne's sweater like a lifeline. The humid night air raised goosebumps on her bare legs as she shuffled toward the pizza parlor, the neon glow making the damp streaks on her thighs glisten faintly. Michael trotted ahead, already forgetting the tension as he pressed his face against the glass door, fogging it with his breath. "In you go," Jim chuckled at his son, making breath-mark markings with his fingers on the window of the door. "Susan, take Greinne straight to find a table if you will?" Sean whispered. "She won't want to be where everyone can gawk at her shirt barely covering her where it needs to." Susan nodded, steering Greinne gently by the shoulders through the crowded dining area. The scent of yeast and melted cheese enveloped us as we passed the buffet line, mingling uneasily with the lingering smell of urine still clinging to Greinne’s skin. A toddler at a nearby table pointed wordlessly at the damp hem of Erinne's sweater swinging against Greinne’s thighs. His mother shushed him quickly, her eyes darting away. Erica pushed my wheelchair along with Greinne and Susan, and the two younger kids came with us. Sorsche and Erinne stayed with Sean and Jim. As we reached a corner table near the salad bar—strategically placed half in shadow—Greinne hesitated, her fingers digging into the sweater edges. The chatter of families around us rose and fell in waves, silverware clinking against plates. A group of teenage boys three tables over glanced our way, then quickly looked back at their pizza when Susan leveled a stare at them. Aoife climbed onto the bench seat first, patting the spot beside her. "Sit here," she whispered to Greinne. "No one'll see." Her voice held a quiet certainty that surprised me—like she'd done this before, mapping sightlines and escape routes in public spaces. Greinne inched onto the bench, her thighs sticking briefly to the plastic upholstery before she settled. The sweater rode up slightly, exposing the elastic waistband of her soaked panties. She didn't seem to notice, her attention fixed on the laminated menu, Susan slid toward her. The edges were sticky with syrup from some long-ago breakfast rush. "You like pineapple?" Susan asked casually, tracing a fingertip down the toppings list. Greinne blinked, her lips parting slightly—like the question was a foreign language. "I... don't know." Her voice was barely audible over the arcade games beeping nearby. "Daddy says pineapple on pizza is a hooligan of an idea," Aoife whispered. "We always just got Pepperoni or plain cheese." A laugh burst from Erica unexpectedly—sharp and sudden like a popped balloon. "Well, tonight we're ordering the works." She tapped the menu with a chipped nail. "Pepperoni, pineapple, sausage, mushrooms—you name it." "We're not allowed to eat the stranger pizza stuff," I whispered up at her. "Not even stupid me." Erica's smile faltered for half a heartbeat before firming again. "New house, new rules," she said lightly, flicking the menu toward me. The laminate caught the fluorescent lights, flashing white across Greinne's startled face. Susan frowned at me. "Honey, I thought we went over this already? You know the rules are different with Sean and me, don't you?" "Yeah. I just was telling why the others were looking worried." Greinne's fingers crept toward mine under the table, her nails digging into my palm like tiny anchors. Across from us, Michael licked pizza grease off his thumb with relish, oblivious to the tension. The scent of oregano and baking dough thickened the air, layering over the sour tang of dried urine still clinging to Greinne's skin. Cindy sat nearer to her daddy, Jim. "We should bring the girls some extra clothes with us this time," Erica told Susan. "That will help a little with this kind of situation." "Yeah. I don't know what I was thinking. We do it with Cait all the time." Susan sighed. "I guess with everything going on, I just wasn't thinking." "It's a lot to think about," Erica seemed to sympathize. "You have quite a challenge on your hands, and none of the children are even potty trained." "We potty trained," I protested. "Especially Erinne, Sorsche, and Aoife, and Greinne only wet the bed sometimes. She doesn't wet her pants. She just.... Things are weird today." I got a little teary-eyed and it made it hard to see people. "I pee my pants on purpose because if I don't, I make stupid and pee too many places to clean up." Sean, Jim, and Sorsche were arriving with pitchers of soda—Sean carried napkins tucked under his arm. He glanced at Greinne’s hunched posture, her thighs pressed together under the too-short sweater. Without a word, he draped his jacket over her lap, the worn denim smelling faintly of hay and motor oil. Greinne blinked up at him—and for the first time, didn’t flinch when a man’s hand came near her face. Sean just winked and nudged the soda toward her. "Sean? We potty trained," I whimpered up at him for understanding. "Greinne just having a bad day, and it weird today. My sisters don't pee in the daytime, and only Greinne at night, and me, and... and if Sorsche has to do the rule, then she has to at school, but she doesn't want to!" Sean crouched beside my wheelchair, his calloused fingers warm around mine. "Cait-love, nobody's saying you didn't try," he murmured, his breath smelling faintly of spearmint gum. "But trained don't mean much when your daddy wired panic straight to your bladder." His thumb brushed a tear off my cheek—slow, like he was handling a spooked foal. "But Erica said Greinne not potty trained, and she doesn't pee her pants, ascept at night, when she sleeping. Sorsche only do it when she told she not allowed, and I... I stupid." Sean exhaled through his nose, his grip on my hand tightening just enough to ground me. Across the table, Greinne had gone very still, her pizza slice untouched, grease congealing on the pepperoni. The arcade lights pulsed pink then blue across her face, catching the wet tracks down her cheeks. "Listen to me," Sean said, low and rough. "Your daddy took a thing as simple as peeing and turned it into landmines. That ain't training—that's torture." He jerked his chin toward Greinne, who was picking at her crust with trembling fingers. "Her body's still waiting for the next hit. So's yours." "Daddy didn't hit me, though," Greinne whimpered. "He told Erinne to do it, with a belt. But more, he made Erinne hit Sorsche, and both Erinne had to, and he hit Cait. I... I have no excuse. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have had to pee in that short time in the car. I was bad." Sean's jaw flexed. The soda pitcher clinked as Jim set it down too hard, his knuckles whitening around the handle. Susan made a small wounded noise in her throat, her fingers twitching toward Greinne's shoulder before hesitating—afraid to startle her. "You weren't bad," Sean ground out, his voice gravelly with restrained anger. "You were scared stiff in a moving vehicle with nowhere to go. That's not failure—that's biology." He reached slowly across the table, palm up. Greinne stared at his calluses like they might bite. "Besides, the doctor said you have bruises, a couple in the same places that Cait has, and the doctor said that the way Cait was hit, it caused her to recently have accidents. I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't some damage to your little body, too, little lady." Greinne turned her face up to Sean's hand, hesitating for a half-second before pressing her cheek into his palm. A shudder ran through her—part relief, part disbelief—as his thumb brushed the hollow under her eye where a fading yellow bruise peeked through her freckles. The arcade lights flickered green across her damp lashes. Mama frowned. I knew what she was thinking. All us girls were lucky didn't see our behavior at the hospital peeing all over the place, and now, Greinne in the car. I narrowed my eyes at Mama because... well, I was safe. Sean won't let her even yell at me. He'll get mad at her. "I know what you're thinking," Sean growled at Mama. "But don't you dare." "What?" Mama looked up at him kind of shocked. Sean leaned forward, his heavy boots scraping against the linoleum floor. The neon pizza sign overhead buzzed faintly, casting red streaks across his stubble. "You're sitting there judging these girls for pissing themselves when their insides are still knotted up from years of being told their bladders belonged to that bastard." His finger jabbed toward the window where the parking lot lights flickered like distant guard towers. "If you love your children, you tell them that everything is okay," Sean told Mama in no uncertain terms. "You know yourself, it's not their fault if they are scared to speak up. You know that man had to have made Greinne scared to speak up for herself, and that goes for even Erinne." "He just didn't want them running around talking like sailors," Mama whispered. "And telling someone you need the toilet is talking like a sailor?" Sean asked. "Well, there are proper ways to do it," Mama frowned. "These are children! No one pays attention to how children talk unless they are using words that kids these girls' ages shouldn't even know." Mama's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around her napkin until the paper tore. Across the table, Greinne had begun quietly crying into Sean's jacket, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The arcade's cacophony of beeps and laughter seemed to swell around us, pressing in like a living thing. "Hey, Greinne. Sweetie?" Susan reached over and touched her leg again, not even caring if it was still wet or not. "You girls need to think about something else. What's happened is in the past, okay? Can we talk about something else, like what you like to do? I know Cait likes to draw and paint...." "I like to read," Greinne whispered. "But Daddy didn't like us to read books unless they were the Bible." "No more about Daddy, baby," Susan said to her with a look that said "I mean it." "But you like to read? What do you read at school that can't be controlled at home, honey?" Greinne sniffled, wiping her nose on the denim jacket sleeve. "Miss Lane lets us pick books from the library cart on Fridays," she whispered, her voice gaining strength. "Last week I read about a girl who lived in a lighthouse. The pictures had whales in them." Her fingers traced invisible arcs on the sticky tabletop—whale tails breaching imaginary waves. "That sounds like a really interesting story," Susan smiled. "If you remember the title, tell me, and I'll try to find the book, okay?" Greinne nodded hesitantly, her fingers still tracing patterns on the table. A bead of condensation from the soda pitcher dripped onto her wrist, making her flinch before she realized it was just water. "I like to draw and paint. It the only thing I good at," I told everyone. "Daddy says...," but I saw Susan's look. "I mean.... It something I good at, though." Aoife looked around at the others, and she looked at Michael, who was just about a year older than she was. "I... watch cartoons and play with my dolls." Michael grinned at her, and he picked up a mushroom from his pizza. "I like trucks and dinosaurs." "I like Science," Sorsche said. "Daddy says it's all rubbish though because Science has make believe things in it like man being from Monkeys and there being monsters like dinosaurs in the world a long time ago." Sean snorted into his beer. "Well, your daddy ain't in charge of truth anymore, kiddo. Museum of Natural History's got bones older than his opinions." "The church we went to before..., and daddy said they put the bones together the way they wanted to sell a lie," Erinne frowned. "The church said it was one of the devil's tricks to make us think there isn't a God." Sean wiped pizza grease off his chin with the back of his hand. "Funny how folks who claim to own truth get real twitchy about folks diggin’ up bones to look at it." He nodded toward Michael, who was carefully arranging pepperoni slices into a T-Rex shape on his napkin. "That kid's got more sense than half the preachers I've met." "I liked some church people," I whispered. "Some of them made Daddy nervous, and he didn't yell or hit when they were watching what was going on." Greinne's fingers paused mid-whale-trail. The arcade's prize counter erupted in a cascade of ticket-spewing noise, sending fractured light across her face. She blinked at me—really looked—for the first time since the accident. "Mr. Wilson gave us candy," she murmured. "After Sunday school. But only if we recited verses right." "I be member that. I won a piece of candy once, and he surprised because he knowed I can't read." Greinne shook her head slightly, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks. "No, you couldn't read the words—but you memorized the verses faster than any of us when Erinne whispered them to you." Her voice carried a quiet wonder, like she'd just unearthed a forgotten treasure from beneath layers of dirt. The admission seemed to startle her as much as it did me—our father had never allowed praise between us, treating kindness like contraband. "You read the verses to me, too, at night, be member? You always trying to help my homework by reading for me directions and telling me if my six is facing the wrong way." Greinne's lips trembled into something almost like a smile. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as she reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the raised scar on my wrist where our father's belt buckle had caught me two winters ago. Her touch was feather-light—hesitant, as if afraid the memory itself might burn her. "How come you kept taking blame for Greinne wetting the bed?" I asked Sorsche. "You the one that always get hit by Daddy. He never hit Greinne, and sometimes he made Erinne hit us." "Erinne would have to hit Greinne if Daddy ever believed me. I'm older than Greinne, so it hurts me less." Sorsche's voice was barely audible over the distant clatter of pizza pans in the kitchen. She traced a grease spot on the table with one finger, avoiding our eyes. The neon sign outside pulsed red across her face in slow waves, making her look like she was blushing—except I knew Sorsche never blushed. She was the one who stood stone-faced when Daddy hit her. "I like the Bible," Erinne said. "But... I think sometimes, people read it to say what they want it to say. I can't explain, exactly. But I think sometimes, they make up what it means so they can tell you what they think God is, and they don't really read it." Sean went still for half a second—just long enough for me to notice—before he leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. His fingers tapped against his soda glass, the glass making a dull *tink* each time. "Funny you say that," he said, his voice slow, like he was picking his way over rocks. "My granddaddy used to say the same thing. Said folks twist scripture tighter than a rattler's coil when it suits 'em." "The Bible says spare the rod and spoil the child...," Greinne said to Erinne's point. "Daddy thinks that means the belt, but if you think that... then they must have had some tough kids back in the old days. Getting hit with a metal stick as thick as a ball bat? I mean, that's what a rod is, right?" Sean chuckled under his breath—a gravelly, approving sound—as he wiped pizza sauce from Michael’s chin. The boy had abandoned his pepperoni dinosaur to listen, his eyes wide. "Ever seen shepherd’s crooks, kiddo?" Sean tapped the curved handle of his soda mug. "Rod’s for guiding sheep, not breaking bones. Whole damn point was keeping ‘em safe from cliffs." "How come it says child, then?" I asked. "Do you hook kids with it?" Sean snorted into his drink. The pizza grease on his fingers glistened under the buzzing fluorescent lights as he reached over to ruffle my hair—a gesture so casual it made Greinne flinch beside me. "You ever seen border collies work? Nudge the lambs right where they need to go without so much as a pulled fleece." His thumb brushed the fading bruise on Greinne's wrist where the belt had bitten last month. "Difference between guiding and gutting." I nodded. "I never saw a thing like you talking, but I know what you mean. It like... you hook the kid so they don't go in a road with a car coming, but it doesn't hurt. Just surprise the kid, and they stopped from getting trouble or hurt?" Sean's eyes crinkled at the corners—the way they did when I surprised him by understanding things grown-ups thought were too complicated. His rough fingers tapped the laminated menu between us, where a cartoon pizza slice grinned up at us. "Exactly like that, Cait-love." "Cait's teacher said she smart one day," Aoife said. "Sorsche took me to her room to find out why she was late, and her teacher asked her to stay back to take a test, only she reading the test and Cait answer with words. That teacher says Cait remembers, but she doesn't read right. She doesn't know why Cait can't read, but it not because her brain is bad." Greinne's fingers stopped tracing whale tails. The arcade's neon glow caught the tears welling in her eyes before she wiped them away with Sean's denim sleeve. "Daddy said Cait was just lazy," she whispered. "He made Erinne hit her knuckles with a ruler when she mixed up letters." "I write b but mean d, and I write p but mean q, and sometimes, I heard t, but it said d, so I have hard time to read and to write." Sean's jaw worked silently, his fingers curling into fists against his thighs. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their sickly glow catching the silvery scars on Greinne's knees—old scabs from the belt buckle breaking her skin when she was hit. Michael, oblivious, crammed another slice into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open until Erica nudged him. Susan reached across the table—slow, telegraphing her movements—and pressed a paper napkin into Greinne's shaking hand. "You know what's funny?" she said, deliberately light. "My brother couldn't read until he was eleven. Turns out his eyes saw letters backward. Now he's an engineer." "He is?" Aoife sounded in awe. "I bet Cait becomes famous. Daddy didn't go to the art show because art is stupid, but Cait won a prize at a school art show. She took the picture home and second place, and daddy threw it all in the trash, right in front of us all, so we'd know to study what is important, and not waste our time on stuff that doesn't go no where." Sean reached for Cait's hand under the table, squeezing it tight. "Well now," he said gruffly, "that's goddamn impressive. Ain't no second place in my book—just means they were too chicken to admit yours was best." He jerked his chin toward Michael, who was carefully arranging pepperonis into a crown shape on his leftover crust. "Kid's got an artist's eye. Maybe we'll frame your next one right over the fireplace." "Michael is good at art," I smiled. "He made a dinosaur and a crown out of pepperoni. That hard to do." Greinne touched her tongue to her top lip—her tell when she was fighting a smile. The pizza grease had dried shiny on Michael's fingers, his makeshift pepperoni crown now sliding lopsided on his crust castle. "May I?" I asked Michael. "I mean, it gross I touch your food, so you can say no...." Michael pushed his plate toward me without hesitation, grinning as I carefully rearranged his pepperoni crown into a proper circle. The grease slicked my fingers, the scent of oregano and melted cheese mingling with the arcade's popcorn-machine smell. Greinne watched my hands moving—slow, deliberate—as I placed the last pepperoni just so. Then I used some Sauce from the slice to kind of 'paste' it into place. "See? Just a little sauce and melted cheese, and it stays better?" Michael's eyes widened. "Whoa! That's like glue!" He poked at it experimentally, his nose scrunching when the cheese stretched. Across the table, Sorsche exhaled sharply through her nose—almost a laugh. The sound made Sean's shoulders relax a fraction. "I like to color," Aoife admitted. "I can't color at home, but at school, sometimes when we finish early, the teacher gives us coloring sheets." Greinne blinked at her—like she’d forgotten Aoife could speak. The pizza grease on Michael’s fingers had transferred to his chin in a glistening smear, but no one corrected him. Instead, Susan tore a fresh napkin into careful strips, folding them into tiny origami whales. She slid one toward Greinne, who picked it up with trembling fingers, tracing the sharp creases with her pinky. "You people are going to get Dan mad at the girls," Mama uttered under her breath. "The girls are not safe until he's actually in jail, and I'm sure if he beats jail, the courts will make Erinne, Greinne, and Aoife, at the very least to live with him... and Sorsche will have to live with me. Cait... I'm not sure if he'd just let you people keep his broken toy or not." Sean's chair legs screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly, nearly toppling the soda pitcher. Greinne flinched so hard her knee hit the table underside, rattling silverware. "Broken?" Sean's voice was dangerously quiet. "Lady, you're standing in a damn pizza joint surrounded by kids who built lighthouses out of napkins and crowns from pepperonis after surviving a warzone—and you call them broken?" "Susan, that adult built the lighthouse and whales, and the boy, Michael is Erica and Jim's kids, not our kids. And what Cait did on the pizza, it's hard to even tell it's what she said it was." Susan's fingers froze mid-fold, the half-made origami whale crumpling in her grip. The neon "PIZZA!" sign outside pulsed red across Mama's face, highlighting the tight lines around her mouth. Greinne had gone very still beside me, her breath shallow—the way she breathed when Daddy was deciding who to punish. "Susan," Sean frowned as he spoke dangerously low. The rumble in his tummy was very bear-like. "Only inspired the kids to do what they wanted to do. I'm not talking about what Susan did. If you'd been watching, you would have seen Greinne putting it together in a scene in her lap over the jacket. Cait's demonstration was not to show what she could do, but to help Michael understand how to make his creation stick. You are so blind, woman. And I think you need to just shut your mouth." Greinne's origami whale trembled in her cupped palms, the paper edges sharp against her skin. The arcade's prize counter erupted in a cacophony of ringing bells and cascading tickets, the noise swallowing Mama's sharp intake of breath. Michael, oblivious, poked at his solidified pepperoni crown with a plastic fork, his tongue poking out in concentration. "Erinne? Take Aoife over to the arcades," Sean told her, giving her quarters. "And Sorsche, you and Greinne go. Erinne, please keep your distance from Sorsche and Greinne right now. Please." The girls got up, and Michael and Cindy were following Sorsche and Greinne. "Erica, do you want to take Cait? I think it's time this woman understands some new rules when talking to the girls, or she won't be seeing even Aoife for a while without me near." Erica hesitated, her fingers tightening around Cait’s wheelchair handles. The pizza parlor’s fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across Mama’s pinched face. Greinne paused halfway to the arcade, looking back over her shoulder—her borrowed sweater sleeves dangling past her fingertips. Sean didn’t move, but the weight in his voice pressed down like storm clouds. Because we were out of earshot now, and Sean talked low, I couldn't hear him, but I could tell from my Mama's nods and her watery eyes, that he was getting to her. "Come on, honey," Erica put a hand on my back to direct me to the games my wheelchair could reach. I held my breath, listening behind me. Sean’s growl was too low to make out words, but Mama’s shuddering inhale carried across the sticky floors. The smell of burnt crust from the kitchen mixed with the sharp citrus of arcade disinfectant. Greinne stood frozen by the skeeball lanes, Sorsche’s protective hand between her shoulder blades—both watching me instead of the flashing lights. After a bit, I found Pacman, and started to play it. It was kind of satisfying eating the white dots, especially the big ones that turned the ghosts blue. I lost kind of fast the first three times, but then I started to get it. My sisters were playing and looking around, I saw Michael and Aoife sharing a two player game, and Cindy, the five year old, was just watching her brother like she looked up to him kind of the way I looked up to all of my older sisters. I looked back at Sean and Mama and saw him lean close, his thumb brushing her wrist where the watch-face caught the light—same way he'd touched Greinne earlier, but without the gentleness. Mama's shoulders hunched inward like a startled turtle's. My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out the arcade's electronic chirps. A sudden shriek from the air hockey table jerked my attention away. Aoife was laughing as Michael dramatically collapsed over the scoring slot after her winning shot. His shirt rode up, revealing a stripe of pale belly—no bruises, no belt marks. Just smooth skin, flushed pink from running around. Greinne stood frozen beside them, staring at Michael's unscarred back like it was some kind of miracle. I was a little mesmerized by the soft pink smoothness, myself. It was like... he was an alien, and yet, it was like he was clean and without tarnishes. Aoife's skin was almost as pink. She didn't get hit even from Erinne, but she had fallen before causing a bruise here and there, and it was hard to tell if Daddy actually did something or if she really fell. I don't think Daddy did it though because... well, he never hit Aoife, and because he was never really mad at her. Cindy giggled as Michael pretended to die, and Aoife copied her, falling over onto Cindy, which made her laugh louder. Greinne flinched, but smiled, and Erinne looked nervous, but wasn't pulling Aoife off Cindy, so I guessed it was okay. I sighed as I started to feel the pittering and pattering of my urine running into the diaper I had on, but I knew I wasn't allowed to go potty right now. Not because Sean was mean, but because the doctor was worried for some reason, and told them to just let me change the diaper at the hospital when we went back. But I liked Sean. He was nice. He smelled like pizza sauce and farming hay and animals, but kind of like... wood, too. Like... fresh cut wood and dirt mixed with man smell. Not Daddy smell—Daddy smelled like stale cigarettes and angry beer. Sean smelled like... like he'd been working outside before he picked us up. I felt my diaper getting warmer against my legs, and I glanced down—careful not to draw attention. The plastic backing of the diaper crinkled faintly under my hospital gown when I shifted in my chair. Across the arcade, Greinne was helping Cindy balance on tiptoes to reach the skee-ball ramp, her borrowed sweater sleeves flopping over the small girl's hands. I couldn't remember having so much fun in quite some time. Sean and Susan were really nice and it was fun traveling to Wyoming with them, but other than shopping, we didn't actually do something like play video games at that time. Still, I don't think I ever played video games with Daddy. We sometimes ate pizza, and that was it. I glanced back toward the pizza table—Sean was sitting again, his broad shoulders blocking Mama from view. His fingers drummed slow circles on the laminate, like he was counting seconds. Mama's head was bowed, her fingers clutching a napkin so tight it split down the middle. The neon light caught the wet tracks on her cheeks. "Watch out!" Michael's yell snapped my attention back just as Aoife's skeeball ricocheted off the ramp, soaring straight for Greinne's head. She didn't duck—just froze, arms rigid at her sides like she was bracing for impact. Sean moved faster than I'd ever seen a grown-up move, his calloused palm intercepting the ball inches from Greinne's temple with a sharp smack. How'd he move that fast--one minute at the table and the next near enough Greinne to stop the ball hitting her head? Or maybe I hadn't seen him starting to come and get us again. I was glad he had stopped the ball from hitting Greinne, though. That would have really hurt. The ball clattered to the floor, rolling unevenly under a pinball machine. Greinne hadn't even blinked—her breath came in short, shallow bursts, fingers digging into Sorsche's shoulders. Sean knelt slowly, palm still outstretched like he'd caught a grenade. "You okay, little bird?" His voice was rougher than usual, the Wyoming drawl thickening around the edges. Greinne looked up at him for a moment before nodding. "It's okay. Um... thanks?" Sean nodded and ruffled her hair, which made her flinch badly, but she didn't pull away, even though she clearly wanted to. "Sorry," Sean murmured, dropping his hand away instantly. His fingers flexed as if they'd been burned. "Old habit." He sighed. "Unfortunately, if we want permission to take Cait out of the hospital again before she heals, we should all be getting ready to go back. I want to stop by Jim and Erica's so we can get you something decent to wear, too." he told Greinne. Grinne looked down at her borrowed clothes—Erinne's sweater that was swallowing her bony wrists, the hem brushing her thighs. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent and something herbal, nothing like Daddy’s sour-stale shirts. Her fingers plucked at a loose thread near the pocket. "I—I can give these back—" "Yes, but the point is that I want to cover your legs better when we go back to the hospital. You'd like that, too, right?" Greinne's knees instinctively pressed together under the table—not just from the cold, but from the phantom sting of belt buckles against bare skin. The memory tasted like copper in her mouth. She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting the loose thread tighter until it snapped. "Y-yeah. But—" Her voice cracked. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their buzz drilling into her skull like Daddy’s sermons. "Dan—Daddy said—pretty things tempt the devil." "Honey, he's got that backwards. The Devil tempts us with pretty or shiny things, but just because we use shiny things, like money, it's not what makes it wrong. It's when we misuse it that it's wrong. You are allowed to be pretty, sweetie." Sean's voice was gruff, but his fingers were gentle as he tucked a loose strand of Greinne's hair behind her ear—just avoiding the fading bruise near her temple. The arcade's neon lights caught the silver scar on his own forearm when his sleeve rode up—a jagged line that looked suspiciously like a belt buckle's mark. Greinne's breath hitched at the sight. Before I knew it, we were back in the car, but overall, the experience had been a lot of fun. I got really far on Pacman, and I saw my sisters all having fun with different games, and we were playing with friends, or at least Sorsche and Greinne were. No one made fun of Greinne's accident, and no one knew I was wet yet. Sean had given Mama strict orders before she'd climbed into the front seat with Susan—something about keeping her opinions to herself unless she wanted supervised visitation. The way Mama had folded into herself like a paper doll told me he wasn't bluffing. Now, as Sean adjusted my wheelchair straps in the van's back row, his flannel sleeve brushed my knee—rough fabric over fresh bandages. The scent of hay and motor oil clung to him, earthy and solid. When Sean was sitting next to me, I looked up at him and tugged lightly at his hand. "What is it, baby?" he asked me. "I'm sorry. I peed." "Honey, that's what the doctor told you to do. Don't worry about it. I keep telling you, you are allowed to, sweetheart." But I shook my head. "I'm sorry because... I liked the pizza and the games, but now you have to leave and go to the hospital." He smiled and hugged me. "Baby, we went to the pizza place for you girls. I can go anytime I want... to tell the truth. I just thought you'd have fun there, and so would your sisters. There is nothing to be sorry about." The van's engine rumbled beneath us, vibrating through the wheelchair's metal frame. Outside, the fading sunset painted the parking lot in streaks of orange and purple—colors I'd once mixed for a school painting Daddy called "useless." Sean's work-roughened fingers lingered on my shoulder, his grip warm even through the hospital gown. Just as Sean promised, we went to his friends' house first and got Greinne changed, but not just her... they changed all my sisters into clean clothes and then took bags with extra clothes with us for all of them. Then... we were walking into the hospital room. I sighed. Now, we'd start the hard stuff again. The nurse approached with a fresh diaper and antiseptic wipes, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Greinne edged closer to the window, her fingers picking at the hem of her new jeans—real denim, not the scratchy homemade skirts Daddy insisted on. The scent of iodine burned my nose as the nurse peeled back the soaked diaper, the cold air hitting my damp skin. "I'm sorry," I whispered up at her. The nurse—her nametag said *Lorna*—didn't react at first. Her fingers were brisk but gentle as she wiped the antiseptic cloth along my inner thighs, the chill making me shiver. Then she paused, tilting her head. "For what, honey?" "You work really hard, and I make it harder by going potty my pants all the time." Lorna's hands stilled. The disinfectant smell sharpened as she exhaled through her nose—not a sigh, just a quiet breath. "Sweetheart," she said slowly, turning the wipe in her hands, "you think I chose pediatric nursing for the easy kids?" Her thumb brushed the edge of my knee bandage, avoiding the raw skin. "I signed up for bedwetters, screamers, and the ones who bite. You?" She snapped the fresh diaper open with a practiced flick. "You're just a kid who needs help." "I not broken though. Sean said I not broken." Lorna's hands paused mid-fold, the fresh diaper crinkling between her fingers. The overhead lights reflected off her badge—*RN Vargas*—as she exhaled sharply through her nose. "Course you're not," she muttered, more to herself than me. The antiseptic wipes smelled like lemons when she tore open a new packet, the sound making Greinne flinch by the window. "Do you have to change a bunch of kids my age?" I asked, curious. Lorna's latex gloves squeaked as she smoothed the diaper's adhesive tabs. "Had one yesterday who kicked me square in the ribs," she said matter-of-factly, nodding toward the bruises peeking under her scrubs collar. The disinfectant stung as she dabbed at the raw skin near my hip, but her fingers never pressed too hard—not like Daddy's grip when he'd dig his nails in to "teach stillness." "That must have hurt, but at least it not dirty like me." Lorna's eyebrow twitched. She ripped off her gloves with a sharp snap, the latex protesting like a rubber band. "Listen here, Cait." Her voice was low now, almost growling—the way Sean got when Mama called us broken. "There is *nothing* dirty about a body doing what bodies do." She jabbed a finger toward the IV bag dripping saline into my arm. "This? Clean. Pee? Cleaner than the crap I deal with most shifts." "Really?" I looked up at her, trying to see what she was lying about and why she would. Lorna snorted, tossing the used wipes into the hazardous waste bin with perfect aim. The clatter made Greinne jump by the windowsill, her fingers tightening around the curtain's edge. Outside, the hospital's parking lot lights flickered on—halos in the gathering dusk. "Kid, I once had a teenager projectile vomit spaghetti into my *hair*. You think a little urine phases me?" I had to cover my mouth to suppress the giggle. "I'm sorry. I know it not funny. It just... the way it must looked at that time.... I sorry." But I couldn't stop laughing. Lorna grinned as she snapped fresh gloves on, the sound sharp against the hum of the IV pump. "Oh, it was hilarious *after* I showered," she admitted, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. The antiseptic scent clung to her scrubs as she leaned in to adjust my pillow. Behind her, Greinne's silhouette against the window was rigid—still braced for reprimand. I sighed. It had been a long day, and after a diaper change, I found myself starting to fall into the dream world where nothing in the real world could touch me.

Chapter Fifteen Lunch with My Sisters Erinne was in the bathroom with Susan, the door closed, and Susan was probably helping her out of her messy skirt and panties. Sorsche was out of the room with Doctor Henderson, being asked questions that were hard to answer, and probably being checked to see how hurt she was. Sean, the man who had been there teaching me what really being with someone who cares about you is like, was near my head pressing the nurse caller button. Greinne was holding Aoife, both of them sitting on the bed I was in, near my knees, and then there was Mama, across the room, just staring at us as if we were a television program or something. Watching, not really partaking at the moment. I sighed at the thought of Sorsche being asked all the same questions I was. I hoped Daddy didn't hurt her legs like he did mine. I wondered why Erinne didn't say anything, or at least just go to the bathroom. It was right there, the whole time. When did she get to the hospital? It was before I woke up.... Aoife's seven-year-old hand rubbed my leg, and she looked up towards my face. "Does your legs and your back still hurt?" she asked. "Not really," I felt some air catch in my throat. "I just... feel nothing, sometimes, when I should feel someone touch my leg, or when I want to move my leg, it won't move." Her hand was wet and left a little wetness on the blanket on my leg because she had been holding it between her legs before. I guess she felt really embarrassed and kind of scared, and besides itchy and other stuff from having an accident. I know how it feels. She's also got to be confused. She sometimes wet the bed, but I hadn't seen her wet her pants in the day before. Currently, she was sitting against Greinne, making Greinne's skirt a bit wet from being too close to her, but Greinne just held her tight and protectively. I frowned down at Greinne. "What do you think I should've done? Erinne told me not to act like I didn't have them... accidents. And then Susan saw my stained, pooped panties when she decided to wash all my stuff instead of just what I was wearing, so I... I thought... Did I have to poop my pants when she found out my panties were messy?" Greinne's chest rose and fell like she was breathing a little heavier. "Susan saw your panties? So, even if you didn't poop your pants at all in front of her, she would have probably been wondering why your panties were stained if you didn't do it.... I don't think you could have done anything that wouldn't expect an explaining," she said, her hands rubbing each other as though a bar of soap was trying to clean them. "What do you suppose they are going to do when Susan's friend, Erica, tells them that I peed the bed last night? Me and Sorsche slept in different beds." I shrugged. "Sean doesn't get mad, even when he wasn't sure if I was doing it on accident or on purpose. She told me I can pee my pants on purpose if I want. I don't think they'll do anything." "But.... I slept in a bed at their friend's house?" I sighed. "You can't even control it, Greinne. You actually pee in bed because you sleeping. I awake, and even I pooped my pants. They knew it on purpose, but they didn't yell. They didn't call me stupid, and they didn't do nothing mean at all. They just took me doctor, because they got scared that I hurted when they saw something wrong." Greinne sighed. "I'm glad they didn't hurt you. But what's going to happen to all of us? There is no way they can take us all, even if they did, I don't know if Erinne and Aoife would want to. Daddy didn't hurt Aoife, and Erinne.... Well, he was a half-decent Daddy to her?" "How do you feel?" I asked Greinne. I saw her jaw clench and unclench, and her temple throbbed. Her body shook, and her hold on Aoife tightened, causing Aoife to look back at her with a look on her face, confused, why Greinne held her so tight. "I... I don't know?" I heard a high-pitched squeak in there. "I... I love Mama, and Daddy.... I don't know. I mean.... I don't know?" She looked towards me, almost as if she was pleading for something. Was it forgiveness? Was it understanding? I didn't know, but I did know that this was Greinne, the only family member who really tried to stop Daddy hitting me with every trick she could think of. Sorsche gave me advice to try to temper his punishments, but she really couldn't do it like Greinne could. Even if she was eleven and Greinne only ten, Greinne wasn't constantly yelled at and hit like Sorsche was. Daddy wouldn't even listen to Sorsche, but he listened to Greinne. "Greinne?" I whispered. "It's not your fault that Daddy hits me. You know that, right?" Greinne nodded. "It's not your fault that he's the only Daddy we know, and that Mama loves Sorsche, Aoife, and you more because you hers, right?" Greinne sighed. "But why they gotta be like that? It hurts." I shook my head. "Mama made me meals. She washed...," but I felt my breath catch. Susan had really washed my clothes, and she didn't even hesitate, knowing I'd pooped some of those panties, and my stuff, it looked better. I wasn't so sure Mama did clean my clothes, now I thought about it. But they didn't smell as bad, and they didn't have solid poops in them when I got them back. I wasn't sure what to think. "Mama hugged me, sometimes." Greinne shook her head. "Mama didn't wash...," she felt her breath catch, and then she glanced at Mama. "I mean, she rinsed them out with a hose, and then she hung them. But I... when she wasn't looking or sometimes, I think she knew but didn't say anything.... I asked Sorsche to help me, and sometimes, even Erinne saw us and asked if it was yours, and when we said it was or when she saw something she knew was yours, she'd chase us away so she could do it, 'right." "You? You touched my poopy panties?" "Cait...." She looked down. "Someone had to. That's why they didn't get clean good though. I... I tried, but I... I'm still not that good at it." I felt a tear run down my face. "You did good, though. I didn't smell bad all the time except when I peed my pants by myself." We stared at each other for a moment, and then Aoife frowned up at Greinne. "Sometimes, Daddy got mad you took the laundry down. He said you playing and made Erinne spank you with the belt when you played laundry with Cait's stuff." "You... you weren't even there. How'd you...?" "I saw stuff," Aoife's breath hitched. "I was there. No one was looking, and I peeked around a corner. I hided under a table. I saw. I know Cait got hit more than everyone." I heard Sean's breath catch near my head as he pushed the nurse's call button again, but it was just then that the nurse came in. "I know this isn't protocol for visitors," Sean started. The nurse looked at him with a tired, weary face that seemed to just say... "I've heard it all. Just ask." "The eldest baby had an accident in her pants, and the little one there is wet. There isn't any way we can get something for them to change into, is there?" The nurse smiled sweetly, and she held up a finger as Sean seemed to start to think he had to explain a little more. "Just give me all the girls' sizes. I'll have to ask the doctor, but I do know at least that one," she pointed at Greinne, "is going to be checked by the doctor, too. I'll ask if we can spare some diapers and sweatpants for the other two girls. The ones that had accidents?" "I... I peed, too," I said in a low voice. "What was that, honey?" the nurse came closer. "She says she needs to be changed, too," Sean spoke for me. "You know how she is. That woman over there..., well, she didn't hit her, but she does make Cait nervous." The nurse nodded and, giving Mama a dirty look, she left the room. I sighed and looked up at Sean. "Papa? You not mad Erinne shit her pants, are you?" Sean frowned at me. "I'm not mad about the act, no baby. She had a reason, though, and I think the doctor should probably check into it. What I don't like, though, is that you said... well, I'd rather you said poop. Okay?" I nodded. "I sorry. I just.... I...." I couldn't explain why I said it exactly. "I know, baby," he put a tender hand on my head despite me saying something he didn't like. I almost flinched, even though it was Sean. Daddy wouldn't have cared if I said something by accident, or if didn't know something was bad. But Sean? He explained, and now, he's touching me like I was being a good girl? "Obviously, that monster would say words like that at you to make you feel worse about what you already couldn't help. Saying it like that would make it seem like Erinne didn't control it just to be disgusting. Neither you nor I know what was going on with her when she did it. So, just say poop, and let the adults figure her out, okay?" I nodded. "Okay." Greinne looked up at him. "Why the doctor gotta look at me? Daddy didn't exactly touch me...." "Nonetheless, honey, you were there. You saw what Cait was going through, and Cait made it sound like you, alone, were keeping her from getting it more than she already got it. I think the doctor just needs to confirm with you what you saw." "But Erinne hit you, Greinne," Aoife whimpered. "And Daddy told her, too." "Erinne hit me with the belt," Greinne nodded, agreeing. "But she didn't kick me, and she wasn't allowed to hit me if Daddy wasn't watching." Sean shook his head. "If she hit you with the belt the way that was described earlier, I'm sure the doctor will have to document the bruises." "But...." She seemed to not know what to say. Her breathing started to get a little heavy and fast. Sean raced around to the other side of the bed, helped Aoife off her lap so he could pick Greinne up, and then Aoife climbed back on the bed next to me, watching. "Honey, honey, look at me," Sean said softly, but urgently, his hands gripping Greinne's shoulders just tightly enough to ground her. "Breathe with me—in..." He inhaled deeply, "...and out." Greinne's panicked eyes locked onto his, her chest quivering as she tried to match his rhythm. After a few shaky attempts, her breathing slowed, though her fingers still twisted in the hem of her damp skirt. "Why you suddenly get scared about Greinne?" Aoife asked innocently curious. "What happened? She just got scared to tell on Daddy and Erinne?" Sean shook his head. "It's not that she got scared, honey. It's that her breathing, even if she was a little scared, didn't match what was going on. I don't know if it has a name or anything, but I do know that she was not breathing right." The nurse came in, and noticing that Greinne was in Sean's lap, Seans lap drenched now, even as Greinne's red, blushed face with tears seemed to still have that frozen scream about it. She seemed to survey everything in a moment, and then she put the sweats and diapers in Mama's lap and walked over to Sean. "May I?" the nurse asked even as she tried to coax Greinne up from his lap to guide her over to one side. Sean hesitated, but then he nodded, coaxing Greinne up gently. "She still might freeze up," he warned lowly. "Her breathing went wrong—fast, shallow—like she couldn't get air in." "I've seen this before. I'll go ahead and change her, here where she feels safe, and then I'll take her to see the doctor right away." I watched as Greinne's breath hitched again when the nurse touched her waistband, her fingers twitching toward Sean before curling into fists. The nurse worked quickly, peeling the wet skirt away with clinical detachment while murmuring, "Easy now, sweetheart. Just like Cait—we'll get you cleaned up." The disposable diaper rustled as it unfolded, its sterile smell mingling with the sharp tang of urine still clinging to Greinne's thighs. Aoife pressed closer to me, her small fingers digging into my hospital gown as we both stared at Greinne's trembling legs—the faint yellow bruises circling her knees like smudged fingerprints. "This child has been beaten, too," The nurse observed aloud. "The doctor will have to know about that." The observation seemed to have been a clinical self-note spoken aloud. But she turned to Greinne again. "Honey, it's okay. Have you experienced this kind of fear before?" Greinne looked down. "She did," Aoife spoke up. "Every time Erinne grabs the belt, when Daddy approaches Cait, and sometimes, for no reason at all." "You see a lot, don't you, little one?" The nurse asked Aoife. "I hided. No one knew I watched." The nurse nodded slowly, her fingers pausing at the tabs of Greinne's fresh diaper. Behind her, Mama stirred from her silent vigil by the window, the sweats and diapers sliding off her lap onto the floor with a soft thud. No one moved to pick them up. "I need to take her out of the excitement of the room for a bit. She'll be okay, and I'll let someone come and speak to her once she's calm again," the nurse told everyone. "But right now, she needs less stimulation." Sean nodded his agreement, but Aoife scrambled off the bed. "I'll go, too!" Her small voice was insistent, her fingers still clutching my gown. "I don't want Greinne to be alone." "I'm sorry, honey. Right now, she needs to be alone. Don't worry, she'll be watched. We have rooms that connect to the rooms of those we watch like this with dark glass so her mind can relax, but we can watch without her seeing eyes on her." Aoife hesitated. "But...but Greinne hates being alone." "Alright, sweetie. As soon as she's ready, we'll come and get someone to be with her, and you can come then, okay?" Aoife hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, her chin wobbling. The nurse helped Greinne out of the chair she used to change her in—her steps unsteady, legs stiff like she'd forgotten how to walk—and guided her toward the door. Greinne turned her head just once, eyes locking onto mine, wide and wordless, before the door clicked shut behind them. Sean took a diaper to the bathroom door and knocked. "They took Greinne to another room. She suddenly got scared pretty bad," he told Susan through the open door. "The nurse said she's just going to calm her, but she changed her and saw bruises on her legs, too." Susan said "That monster," before she took the diaper and then closed the door to help Greinne. "We at the hospital," I patted closer to me. "Sean wouldn't let them take Greinne if it wasn't okay. I promise." Aoife nodded and scooted closer to me. "Hold on, little one," Sean seemed to get to her before she got towards my head. "You need to get out of that wet dress first, sweetie." "I just peed my pants," Aoife looked up at him. "I didn't want to leave the room. It scary here." "I know, baby. No one is mad at you. I just don't want you to wear wet clothes all afternoon. That's not healthy." He took her over to a chair to start changing her. "Aoife's my baby," Mama started to speak up as Sean got her in his lap to help her. He glanced over at Mama. "I'm sorry, but until I feel it safe for the girls to be near you, and I mean all of them including Cait and Erinne, you've lost your rights as their mother. I will change the baby girl. You can watch." "But...," Mama's breath hitched. "Look, Maire. I understand that maybe Dan was the controlling monster that did the physical stuff, but you were their mother, and you obviously let this go on for years, long enough that it became normalized for the children. Cait, just sitting there at the table, pooping her pants on purpose like that? You know that's not normal. That's what she did at our house. You saw the welts on Greinne's legs just now. You saw Sorsche's hands, scratched all up from her own doing? And you know... Erinne was cutting herself as punishment. You had to have seen this, and yet you didn't reach out for any help until you wanted Cait out of your hair for the summer. You are not fully off the hook, and the only reason I even let you sit there, is because there is no evidence as yet, that you actually did anything physical. So. Sit and let me take care of the kids like they should be. Maybe you can learn what to do with them for a change rather than not to do." Mama's face crumpled, but she didn't argue further. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and watched silently as Sean peeled Aoife's wet dress away from her skin with practiced ease. The disposable diaper crinkled as he unfolded it—Aoife squirming slightly at the unfamiliar sensation—but she didn't protest when he secured the tabs snugly around her hips. "Baby?" Sean spoke gently to Aoife. "You are still a big girl. You can still go potty if you want. But if you have an accident, or you choose to stay where you know it's safe, causing you not to go potty in time, it will be okay. No yelling, okay?" Aoife frowned. "But... Daddy says I'm too old for accidents." "Baby..., Daddy hit your sisters for stupid reasons. No one should ever be hit like that for peeing in her sleep, and no one should be hit for not being able to get good grades at school. We all learn things at our own pace, and I think right now, you are only seven, going through a lot of stuff, and you are scared. Peeing your pants, if it happens, is only natural, baby." Aoife wiped her nose on her sleeve and leaned into Sean's chest. "But...but Daddy said--" "I know...," Sean tried to quiet her thinking about Daddy. "I know. It's not what you've heard. I want you to know, you are safe here. If you pee pee, just let me know, honey. No one is going to yell at you here, baby." Aoife buried her face in Sean's shoulder. "But Mama...," she started to speak. "Mama, is confused," Sean muttered under his breath "I hope." He rocked Aoife a bit and the nurse finally came in being free. "Sorry to keep you waiting, miss. I know you've been waiting for your diaper to get changed, but I had to settle your sister in the quiet room, and stuff." "It okay," I smiled up at her. "I wore wet panties all day sometimes. I had to. I didn't wait that long." The nurse frowned a little bit, but she decided not to comment on what I said. "Alright, sweetheart," she said instead, pulling fresh gloves on with a snap. "Let’s get you clean." She reached for the hem of my gown, lifting it slowly—I tensed, fingers gripping the sheets, then forced myself to relax. Sean was watching. He wouldn’t let her hurt me. The diaper rustled as she untaped it, the damp smell rising faintly. I stared at the ceiling, focusing on the cracks in the tiles while she wiped me down with warm wipes. Aoife peeked from Sean’s arms. "Cait’s bellybutton’s all scrunched," she whispered. The nurse paused, her gloved fingers hovering near the jagged scar above my hipbone—old, puckered skin, uneven where stitches had ripped out. "That’s not from today," she murmured, more to herself. Sean shifted Aoife in his arms, his voice deliberately light. "Baby, remember when we talked about asking before touching?" Aoife nodded solemnly and tucked her hands against her chest, but her wide eyes stayed fixed on the scar. The nurse's gloved fingers traced the edge of it—too clinical, too detached—and I flinched when she pressed just a little too hard. The pain was dull, distant, but the memory wasn't: Daddy's belt buckle catching there as I curled into myself, the way the skin tore when he yanked it free. "Cait," Sean said softly, a warning and a question both. He was watching my face now, not the nurse's hands. The nurse withdrew her fingers like she'd been burned. "I'm sorry," she said, genuine regret in her voice. "I should have asked first." She finished taping the fresh diaper quickly, her movements efficient but gentler now. The scent of powder mixed with antiseptic as she smoothed the edges down over my hips. Sean exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was holding back something darker. Aoife squirmed in his lap, her small fingers clutching at his shirt. "Did Daddy do that?" she asked, her voice too loud in the quiet room. The nurse hesitated, glancing at Sean before answering. "We don't know yet, sweetheart. But we're going to find out." Her words were careful, but her hands trembled slightly as she balled up the soiled diaper. Sean's grip on Aoife tightened, not in anger but something deeper—a protective instinct tensing through his arms. Aoife didn't seem to notice, her small fingers now tracing invisible patterns on his forearm while her gaze remained locked on my scar. "Cait used to cry when Mama put the hose water on her cuts," she murmured. "But Cait didn't cry when Daddy—" "Baby," Sean interrupted gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Let's not talk about that right now." His voice was steady, but the muscle in his jaw pulsed once—a silent tell. A sound came over a speaker. "Doctor Matthews to pediatrics, please." That was Doctor Henderson's voice, and I knew he was supposed to be talking to Sorsche right then. I wondered if there was something really wrong with her. Or.... Greinne was just taken off, too. Did he pause asking Sorsche questions to check on Greinne? I shivered a little bit, scared that something else was wrong, something worse than with me. The nurse finished taping my diaper and smoothed my gown back down, her fingers lingering a moment too long at the hem like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure how. Then the door clicked open, and Erinne shuffled in—her hospital-issued sweatpants rustling faintly, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Susan followed close behind, gripping Erinne’s elbow like she was afraid the girl might bolt. Erinne's eyes darted to Mama first—just a flicker—before landing on me, then Aoife, then scanning the room again. Sean smiled over at Erinne. "Sit down, baby," he said, even to my thirteen-year-old eldest sister. "I think we need to understand something. I know you are scared and that this is all a lot, honey. But not only does the doctor need this, but you, too." Erinne sat down next to me on the bed, and I flinched, but Sean reached over and touched my hand to say I was safe. Erinne nodded at Sean's words. "I... I know," she whispered. "But I can't just... talk about it." "You don't have to, baby. You can just shake your head or nod. Is that okay?" Erinne hesitated, then nodded slightly, her cracked nails digging into the fabric of her sweatpants. I noticed the scabs along her wrists where the sleeves rode up—jagged lines, some fresh enough that the skin around them was still pink. Sean followed my gaze and inhaled sharply but said nothing, just squeezed my hand tighter. Sean sighed. He removed his undershirt, balled it up tight, and then he put it into Erinne's hands. "Squeeze on that, baby. It will hurt a lot less, and it won't open scratch any new sores into your legs." Erinne clutched the fabric like a lifeline, her knuckles whitening as she folded her arms back over her chest—hiding her wrists again, but the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly. The nurse moved to leave, but paused when Erinne’s breath hitched audibly. Sean reached out and touched the nurse's arm. "Can... can you get me some gloves or something for her? You saw the scratches earlier?" The nurse nodded, her eyes softening as she glanced at Erinne's wrists. "I'll be right back." Sean watched her leave, and then he whispered. "When you started to first scratch yourself, was it before you came to America?" He rubbed her leg to try to calm her while he adjusted the undershirt in her hands from time to time to make sure she had her nails in the shirt and not on her body. Erinne hesitated, her fingers curling tighter around the shirt. She gave the tiniest nod—almost imperceptible—but Sean caught it, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "And... did anyone hurt you back then?" His voice was feather-soft, like he was afraid the words might shatter her. She shook her head no, but there were tears in her eyes. There was a dreamy look in her eye as though she remembered something soft, and the tears started to spill down her face. "You were scared of something though?" Another tiny nod. Erinne's lips parted slightly, but no sound came out—just a shaky exhale that smelled faintly of antiseptic and the sour tang of old vomit. Her fingers twitched against Sean's shirt, nails scraping fabric instead of skin now, and that was progress. "Erinne said that Mama isn't her Mommy," Aoife thought that helped somehow. "Does your Mama live in America?" Sean asked Erinne, his arms around her a little tighter as he felt her sob a little. Erinne shook her head, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. She lifted her hand—the one not clutching his undershirt—and made a vague motion toward the window, the hallway, the world beyond. Somewhere far. "When Maire moved in, did you stop seeing your Mama at all?" Erinne's breath stuttered—half gasp, half sob—and she curled forward suddenly, pressing Sean's shirt against her face as her shoulders shook. Aoife whimpered beside me, scooting closer until her knee bumped mine under the sheets. The nurse returned with gauze and gloves just as Erinne's fingers spasmed, tearing at the shirt's collar seam. "I'm not sure," Sean looked up at the nurse. "But the doctor should probably look into not physical abuse with this one, but emotion and possibly mental abuse. I think she's hurt from not seeing her real mom, though I don't know why they separated." The nurse knelt beside Erinne, carefully peeling the shredded shirt from her trembling fingers. "Sweetheart," she murmured, wrapping gauze around Erinne's raw wrists with practiced precision, "did someone tell you not to see your mama?" Erinne's breath hitched—not a nod, not a shake, just the slightest tightening of her shoulders. The nurse's gloved hands stilled. "You don't have to answer," she said quietly. "But if someone kept her away from you..." Her voice trailed off as Erinne's head jerked up, eyes wild and wet. Sean sucked in a breath. "Oh, honey." He didn't ask. He didn't need to. The way Erinne's fingers clawed at the fresh gauze said everything—how her "Mama" had vanished overnight, replaced by Maire's sharp perfumed hugs and sharper words. How no one explained why. Maire spoke up, though. "Her mother... she was... Dan said she was a drunk, and that she wasn't much of a lady. I... I got on Erinne about some of the language that she came home with after being with her. It was before Cait or even Greinne were born. In the end, I had to cut it off, and Dan agreed that the woman wasn't good for her. She taught her bad stuff, and she.... She was in jail a lot." Erinne's head jerked toward Maire, her pupils dilating like a cornered animal’s. Her lips moved soundlessly for a second before she choked out, "Liar." The word was raw, more breath than voice, but it hung in the air like a struck match. Aoife gasped beside me, her tiny fingers digging into my arm. "Erinne, you were only four at the time. You remember what you felt with her, and every child loves their Mama. It's not your fault. But I'm not lying. Have you never asked Daddy what happened?" Erinne froze—her whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. The gauze around her wrists wrinkled as her fingers spasmed, her breathing turning shallow again. Sean's hands hovered near her shoulders, not touching but ready. "Easy," he murmured. "Just breathe, baby." "Dan did disagree with me not letting her mother see me at first, but then, something happened on one of the visits. Her mom was neglecting her, apparently, in a back room, and her mother was roughly handled. A fire started, and Erinne was almost killed in the fire. That's when Dan finally agreed not to let her near the house again." Erinne's skin turned grayish under the harsh hospital lights. Her mouth opened—silent—before snapping shut with an audible click of teeth. The nurse's gloved fingers tightened around the gauze roll, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's... quite the story," she said carefully, eyes flicking to Sean for guidance. Sean shrugged not knowing anything about our past before we moved to Idaho nearly three years previous. "I'd have no way to check into that, myself, but it kind of makes sense. Even if Dan is a monster, no doubt he had probably used something like that as leverage or something to control the mother or something?" Erinne's jaw clenched so hard I heard her teeth grind. Her fingers curled into the mattress, gauze threads snapping under the pressure. The nurse reached out—to steady her, maybe—but Erinne flinched violently, her elbow catching the woman’s wrist with a dull thud. "No!" The word ripped from her throat, ragged. "She—she wouldn’t—" "Honey, no one at the age of four understands what is happening around them and what adults are doing. There is no way to know if it was true or not," Sean rocked her some more. "Aoife doesn't know why you hit Cait with the belt or Greinne, except that her parents tell her that they were bad, right? And she's seven, honey." Sean rubbed her back. Erinne sniffled too. "But...but that's not...when Mama...." She grabbed Sean's undershirt and rubbed her tears with it again. She hiccupped. "She...she never...." "Well, sweetie, how about I get someone to come in and take notes, and you tell your side, because even as diluted by time as it will be, your truth will probably be more accurate than most of the others in the room?" The nurse waited to see if she wanted that or not, not pushing it, just offering. Erinne hesitated, her fingers twisting in Sean's shirt, then gave the smallest nod. The nurse rose smoothly, squeezing Sean's shoulder on her way out—a silent acknowledgment of the bomb that had just been dropped between them all. Aoife wiggled free from Sean's lap and climbed onto the bed beside me, her small body warm against my side. She smelled faintly of hospital soap and the lingering salt of dried tears. "Baby, do you want to tell your story to the person they get with everyone in the room, with only one person in the room other than that person, or do you want to be completely alone?" Sean asked her coasting her to sit where Aoife had been in his lap. "No one will be mad whatever you choose. This is about your comfort, child. No one else's." Erinne's breath shuddered as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand—the gauze unraveling slightly from her wrist. "Alone," she whispered, so low I almost missed it. "But...but not really alone." Her fingers plucked nervously at Sean's undershirt still clutched in her lap. "What do you mean, not really alone?" he asked her. "It's okay. You don't have to be scared. The only person I can't let go with you, because he's not even in the state, and because he's probably in jail right now, is your Daddy. But anyone else, even Aoife, I would permit it, honey." "No." Erinne shook her head sharply, her matted hair sticking to her damp cheeks. "Not—not people." Her fingers spasmed around the shirt again, knuckles pressing white against the fabric. "The—the door. Just... open. A little." "Do you want me or someone else to be outside the door, maybe?" he asked her. "Or is it just so you have an escape if it gets too hard?" Erinne nodded slightly, her fingers loosening around the shirt just enough for it to wrinkle rather than tear. "Both," she breathed, barely audible. The nurse returned with a clipboard and a woman in a soft blue cardigan—her graying hair pulled into a loose bun, her hands free of gloves. No medical equipment, just a pen tucked behind her ear. "One minute, please, doctor. I am trying to find out what makes her most comfortable, and I think it better me ask than strangers." Then he turned back to Erinne. "You can choose. Mama, Susan, or me, who do you want outside the door in case things get too intense in the room?" Erinne's fingers twitched, her gaze flickering toward Mama—just for a second—before dropping again. "Susan," she whispered. "You got it, baby. I think this doctor is going to take you to the private room to talk to you, and Susan, if you will go with her and wait in the hall like we discussed so she has someone to run to if she gets scared?" Susan nodded, her expression softening as she reached for Erinne’s hand—careful not to touch the gauze-wrapped wrists. Erinne flinched at first, then allowed it, her fingers trembling in Susan’s steady grip. The woman in the cardigan smiled warmly and gestured toward the door. "Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. We’ll go at your pace." I held Aoife closer to me. "They keep taking everyone out of the room," I whispered to Aoife. "I mean, I know they have to get us to tell our own story so we don't get mixed up with each other, but I thought they would at least let us visit while they are talking to us." Aoife nodded. "I don't want to go alone," she muttered, wetting her lips nervously. "I want Sean." "He'll probably go with you unless the doctor says you can't," I smiled. "And I have this shirt, and it's his because... he IS safe." Aoife leaned into me suddenly, her small body rigid with tension. She smelled like hospital antiseptic and the faint tang of old urine beneath the fresh diaper—her fingers clutched at my gown with surprising strength. "What if they say I'm lying?" she whispered, her breath hot against my collarbone. "Just be honest," I sighed looking down. "Even if they call you lying, it's just because of what Daddy did, not because you are not truth telling. And if you tell Sean you think they called you lying, just tell him. He won't allow it." Aoife sniffled, her small fingers tightening in my gown. The fabric stretched uncomfortably against my shoulder where she'd gripped it—her nails pressing half-moon indents into my skin through the thin material. Outside, the murmur of voices drifted through the partially open door—Susan's low tone answering some unheard question, the psychologist's softer response punctuated by the click of a pen. Sean meandered closer to us from Mama, as though they had been whispering while I was distracted with Aoife. "Okay, girls?" His bear like gruff grounding me in the present. Aoife lifted her head—still pressed against my shoulder—and nodded, but I saw the way her lower lip trembled. Sean noticed too; his calloused thumb brushed the stray tear streaking her cheek before he crouched to our eye level. "Listen," he murmured, so low I had to lean in, "I won't let them bully you. But you gotta tell 'em everything—even the messy bits. Especially those." "You can go with her, right? If they just talking to her?" I asked Sean about staying with Aoife. "She just seven. She shouldn't have to go alone." Sean's hand paused mid-air, fingers curling slightly before he exhaled through his nose—that slow, controlled breath I'd come to recognize as him wrestling with something unspoken. "Depends on the doc," he said finally, rough palm smoothing down Aoife's tangled hair. "But I'll ask 'em. Loud, if I gotta." I told Aoife you safe, and you keep your word and you don't hit and... and... and... you don't yell." Sean's eyes darkened—not in anger, but something heavier. The nurse cleared her throat from the doorway, clipboard pressed to her chest. "They're ready for Aoife now," she said, her gaze flicking between Sean and Mama. "Standard protocol is—" "That children under ten are not supposed to be unaccompanied," Mama spoke up. "Sean said he'd go, so I can't coax her to say anything, and Sean wasn't there, so he can't coax either." I blinked. Mama was making sure Aoife didn't have to go alone, but why didn't she tell them that about Greinne? Was it because Greinne is ten?" The nurse hesitated, her pen tapping against the clipboard. "Actually, hospital policy recommends accompaniment for any child under twelve in abuse cases." Her voice dropped slightly. "Especially given the... nature of the injuries documented." "Then, you let Greinne have Susan in there, right?" Mama asked. "You took her off to ask her questions. She has... Wait, Susan is with Erinne. What about Greinne?" The nurse’s fingers tightened around her clipboard. A silence stretched—too long—before she spoke. "Grinne was… deemed mature enough to proceed without accompaniment. Given her age and… observed resilience." The words sounded rehearsed, clinical. Something cold slithered down my spine. "Greinne is ten," Mama told her. "She is under twelve, so it was not good even if she's mature. You said so yourself. The only child over twelve is Erinne." Sean stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the linoleum. His hands flexed at his sides—once, twice—before he spoke through clenched teeth. "Where is she now?" The question was low, dangerous. "She's in a room relaxing. The doctor looking at her decided she needed a break." Sean exhaled sharply through his nose. "Show me." His voice carried a weight that made the nurse take an involuntary step back. "And Aoife doesn't go anywhere until either Susan or I get back. She stays with her big sister, Cait for now." Maire opened her mouth—probably to protest—but Sean was already striding toward the door, his boots thudding against the floor with deliberate force. The nurse scrambled after him, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. Aoife whimpered against my shoulder, her fingers digging into my arm again. "Is Greinne okay?" she whispered, her breath warm and uneven against my skin. "I think she is," I whispered. "That's what Sean is probably checking, that they didn't stress her too much." Aoife nodded against my shoulder, her fingers relaxing slightly. The overhead lights buzzed faintly—a sound I'd barely noticed before, but now it seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat. The scent of antiseptic grew sharper, mixed with the stale coffee someone had left on the windowsill. Mama shifted in her chair, her hands twisting in her lap—her knuckles cracked and red from scrubbing. It was a few minutes before Sean came back, Greinne hanging on his shoulder, sniffling. "Are you okay?" I asked as Greinne came into the room, her breathing heavy, and her face pushed in against Sean's side. She nodded against him, but her fingers were clutching his jeans so tightly the fabric strained at the seams. Sean’s jaw was set, his free hand hovering protectively over her back. The nurse trailing behind them looked pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not saying you are wrong," Sean was telling the nurse. "Of course I wanted you to know those things, but there has to be a better way to get those kinds of things from a child." The nurse swallowed hard, her fingers twisting the hem of her scrubs. "Protocol—" "You broke protocol, your own words, because she's not even twelve. You can't question her at all on her own like that." The nurse flinched at Sean's tone—low and controlled but vibrating with fury. Greinne whimpered against his side, her fingers twitching against his jeans like she wanted to let go but couldn't. The scent of salt and hospital soap clung to her, mixed with something sharper—fear sweat. "The child has been abused, even if by another child, you know the parent, that monster that we are building a case against was the one that did this. You saw her leg and knew she had been hit. You had to know she'd start screaming or even hitting if she didn't have someone safe near her." The nurse's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before she managed, "We—we needed uncontaminated testimony—" "Thus you don't ask her mom to go back with her. Susan and I were not there. She couldn't get coaxed answers from us because we have no idea what would have happened to help her answer. There was no excuse." Sean's fingers flexed against Greinne's back—not pulling her closer, just anchoring them both. The overhead lights flickered, casting shadows that made the bruises on Greinne's legs appear darker for a heartbeat. Aoife whimpered again from my lap, her small fingers twisting the hem of my gown into knots. "Just... just ask her with someone there for her, next time. That's all I'm asking," Sean sighed. "I know this is tricky and hard, but as the children's advocate, I have to insist that even Erinne is not treated like she can be alone in this stressful situation. None of them can be coaxed by Susan or myself. You know we weren't there." The nurse nodded quickly, her hands fidgeting with her stethoscope. "Of course. I'll—I'll make sure the others know." Her voice wavered slightly, eyes darting to Greinne's hunched shoulders before she hurried out, the door clicking shut behind her. Sean reached over and brought Greinne over and hugged her as they walked to the bed where he let her sit on it near my knees. "They ask you hard questions, or did they embarrass you?" I asked. Grinne's shoulders hitched—a silent sob trapped in her ribs. Her fingers, still twisted in around themselves, trembling like leaves in a storm. The scent of antiseptic couldn't mask the sour fear clinging to her skin. Sean stroked her back once, firmly, before stepping back just enough to see her face. "Breathe, kiddo," he murmured. "You're safe now." Doctor Henderson led Sorsche into the room, and he saw Sean getting Greinne settled, and could probably feel how peanut butter thick the feeling of the room had. "Er... is everything alright?" he whispered. "I had a talk with one of your nurses. They brought Greinne back by herself even though they told us the protocol is kids under twelve need to be accompanied by family for questioning." Doctor Henderson rubbed his temples for a second—the skin there was shiny with sweat, and when he exhaled, his breath smelled faintly of peppermint and exhaustion. Behind him, Sorsche shifted uncomfortably, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum. "Ah," the doctor said finally. "There appears to have been... some confusion regarding procedure." "Trainee nurses don't know everything, and unfortunately because we were a bit understaffed to hand five girls in this situation with so little warning, we had to have two of them work on this with us. Actually, in a case like this, it is common practice to question the children away from the parents because parents can be influencing the child." Sean's knuckles whitened where they rested against Greinne's shoulder. "She's ten." The words came out flat, final. "Ten-year-olds don't lie about belt marks unless they’ve been taught to." "That's the norm," he agreed. "However, they can lie about where they came from or why, especially if the one they protect through a lie scares them worse than the one they say did something." Sean exhaled sharply through his nose—that slow, controlled sound he made when he was trying not to yell. Greinne flinched against him, her fingers tightening in his hand. The scent of antiseptic grew sharper suddenly, mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood where her nails had dug too deep into her palms. "Make no mistake," Doctor Henderson told Sean. "I am not saying that their father didn't do this. I'm saying if we brought their mother back with them, with controlling looks, she could signal to them to lie about who did it or how it happened. That's why we have different procedures when we are getting to the bottom of trauma that comes with abuse." Sean's jaw clenched, but he gave a stiff nod—his fingers flexing against Greinne's shoulder in silent reassurance. Behind him, Sorsche fiddled with her shirt, her gaze darting between the doctor and Greinne’s hunched form. The fluorescent light flickered again, casting Greinne’s bruises in stark relief. "It's the truth that Erinne hit Greinne, me, and Cait, and that Daddy hit Cait. That's what I really know. But Erinne likes Cait, so I know Erinne didn't hit Cait because she wanted to." Sorsche frowned after explaining what she knew—her eleven year old hands twisting the hem of her hospital gown. Doctor Henderson sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Children often misremember events under duress—" "I'm not lying," Sorsche looked to Sean for support. "Daddy never touched Greinne himself, and he only hit me when Mama wasn't looking. Instead, I think... I'm not sure... But I think... Erinne did it for him." The silence that followed was thick enough to taste—like ozone before a storm. Sean's fingers twitched against Greinne's shoulder as the girl stiffened, her breath hitching in that telltale way that meant tears were coming. Doctor Henderson's pen froze mid-air above his clipboard. Sean nodded. "You have to admit that the kid isn't backing down from that, and it makes sense given what Aoife said she saw, and how Greinne and Erinne have acted since we brought them in." He looked at the doctor, his fists clenching as he tried to still himself. Greinne pressed her forehead against Sean’s ribs, her breathing uneven. The scent of antiseptic mixed with her sweat—sharp and sour. Aoife whimpered against my shoulder, her fingers tightening in my gown again. "Sorsche is right," Greinne whispered. "Daddy didn't touch me himself, and he only hit Sorsche when Mama wasn't watching." Doctor Henderson lowered his clipboard slightly, his pen hovering. A muscle in his jaw jumped. "So Erinne—" "Erinne is with a social worker right now from the hospital," Sean reminded the doctor. "Susan went with her, and is hanging outside the door to her room to make sure she feels safe." Doctor Henderson exhaled slowly, his breath stirring the papers on his clipboard. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed louder, casting harsh shadows under Greinne’s hollowed cheeks. Sorsche shifted closer to Sean, her fingers brushing Greinne’s arm—a tentative touch that made the younger girl flinch before leaning into it. "Do you have a case or not?" Sean asked the doctor. "I don't know how this wouldn't be enough." "It's definitely a case. We still have to talk to Aoife though, and we need to talk to Greinne again, but there is a strong case from what the kids have admitted." Sean exhaled, his broad shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of relief—or exhaustion. His calloused thumb brushed absently over Greinne's wrist where the gauze had loosened, revealing thin, fresh scratches. The air smelled faintly of iodine now, mixing with the stale coffee lingering near the windowsill. Aoife squirmed against me suddenly, her small fingers digging into the bedding. "Do I have to talk now?" she whispered, her breath sounding as though she was running. The words trembled—not quite a whine, but close. Sean turned, his gaze softening as he took in her wide, wet eyes. "I think the children need a break," Sean told the doctor. "You said yourself that you didn't get everything from Greinne and Sorsche yet. Erinne is still being talked to by the other doctor woman, and she's admitted to punishing Greinne, Sorsche, and Cait. Honestly, the girls haven't even had lunch yet. Why don't you let me take them for dinner, and then when I bring them back, maybe they'll be more in the mood to answer your questions?" Doctor Henderson hesitated, his fingers tapping against the clipboard. The fluorescent light buzzed again, casting flickering shadows over his tired face. Greinne sniffled against Sean’s side, her fingers still knotted in his shirt. Sorsche rocked slightly on her heels, her stomach growling loud enough to make Aoife giggle nervously. "I... I want to go with them," I said from the hospital bed I was stuck in. "Please?" Sean looked from the doctor to me, and he took in what I looked like, I guess, and then he glanced at the doctor. "Other than her inability to walk right now, what would be the reason she can't at least come to dinner?" The doctor considered. "You know, she's had surgery because of internal damage to her body. She has stitches that...." "Should be healing. She's been lying there for a few days." Sean seemed to be trying to argue for me. "Obviously, I'll do what you recommend, but she misses her sisters." Doctor Henderson adjusted his glasses, exhaling through his nose. The scent of stale coffee clung to his lab coat as he glanced at my chart. "I think maybe as long as she doesn't move on her own. No standing on her own. You put her in and out of the chair, and you don't do anything unnecessary. I'll have a nurse change her diaper once before you leave." Sean nodded, relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. Greinne sniffled against his side, her fingers unclenching slightly from his jeans. The fabric bore the imprint of her grip—small, desperate creases in the denim. A while later, after the nurse had changed me again, and Doctor Henderson went over his rules again to make sure Sean and Susan both understood that I wasn't to be moved more than needed to get me in and out of the car; that they couldn't change me while I was out, but to wait until I got back to the hospital, and that under no reasons at all, that I was not allowed to stand up or even lean against anything but had to be on the floor or in someone's arms if I wasn't in the chair. Then they finally brought in a wheelchair, and the doctor made sure to show Sean how he wanted me to be handled while he transferred me from bed to the chair. "Can't he even take her to the bathroom?" Erinne asked in a soft plea. "No, honey," Doctor Henderson lay a tender hand on her shoulder. "I need her to heal and I need to make sure her hips don't get pressure on them before they are ready. We've attempted to correct them, but if she puts pressure on them before the bones have had a chance to mend correctly, it could do more harm than good. She can use her diaper and we'll change her at the hospital." Erinne frowned. "Okay." Sean signed some papers, not only for me, but it seemed they were actually admitting everyone into the hospital except Aoife now. Apparently, Erinne had some emotional and possibly some mental things going on and also had some deeper cuts that she realized. Sorsche had some suspicious bruising and other problems that they wanted to check more carefully. Greinne was also a concern with some of the bruises caused by Erinne doing what Daddy told her to do. So Sean had to sign papers for all of us. Aoife, the doctors said, didn't seem physically harmed, so they could wait to check her over until the next day to decide if she needed to be in the hospital or not then. Finally, I was in the chair, and I was wheeled out by Erinne, Sean at my side, and Susan on the phone talking to her friend who had apparently been waiting in the lobby for her. My sisters around me, I felt the tension of being stuck in bed all that time slowly dissolving. Mama was still there, but somehow, I didn't feel her blazing, unapproving glares so much as I felt the warmth from Sean and the shirt he kept on me. I didn't understand at first why people were staring at us, until I realized I did have Sean's shirt in my hands and Erinne had Sean's undershirt in hers to keep her from wanting to punish herself with scratches. That came when Susan's friends walked over, and I saw Erica and Jim for the first time, each with a little kid in their arms. One of them was an eight year old boy and the other was a five year old girl. "So, the kids can go home?" the man with thinning yellow hair asked Sean his blue eyes twinkling at us. "No," Sean's bear gruff voice was low. "We just have permission to take Cait to get her something with her sisters. And they're actually admitting the other three elder girls when we get back. Turns out that monster did a number even on two of the girls that were supposed to be favorites of his." "I can't believe anyone would do that to children," Jim frowned. "Well, what is the plan?" "I was thinking of taking the kids to get some pizza or something." "You'll need a shirt," Jim chuckled. "It looks like your shirts you had on are being claimed by the girls." Sean smiled a genuine happy face, the lines in his eyes showing great approval. "Cait has been clinging to my shirts since we brought her to our house, and that poor baby, needed something to occupy her hands. She hurts herself." Jim shook his head. "Well, we have our van. We can all take that to our house. It's closer. You can borrow one of my shirts and then we can all get some pizza." "Sounds good," Sean nodded. The sliding hospital doors hissed open, releasing a gust of stale parking lot air thick with exhaust fumes and the faint metallic tang of rain on asphalt. Aoife pressed against my wheelchair, her small fingers gripping the armrest as the unfamiliar adults loomed closer. Sean's bare shoulders flexed when he reached back to steady Greinne—his fingertips brushing the fresh bandages on her wrist. Jim's van smelled like old fries and crayons. The five-year-old—Cindy, peered at us from her booster seat, pudgy fingers smearing the fogged window. "Why's that girl got tape on her arms?" Her whisper carried in the sudden silence as Erinne hunched deeper into Sean's undershirt. "Don't worry about it," Jim told her. "It's not for you to worry about, honey. Do you want some pizza?" The girl nodded enthusiastically, seemingly forgetting us for the moment. Jim flipped open the van door. "Hop in, let's get everyone settled," he said with practiced cheer that didn’t quite mask the grimace when he saw Greinne hesitate—her bruised knees trembling as she climbed up. Sean boosted her onto the middle bench, his palm lingering on her back until she stopped shaking. "Susan, why don't you sit with Greinne and Sorsche behind Aoife then Me and Cait? Maire, you sit in the front so I know you aren't near any children right now, and in the far back, if that's okay, Erica you can put your children next to you. If you need help, I can adjust the car seats for you." Erica nodded, adjusting Cindy's straps with quick, practiced motions. The van's upholstery creaked as Maire slid into the passenger seat—her posture rigid, her fingers drumming against her purse. Through the rearview mirror, I caught the way her eyes flickered toward Greinne, then away just as fast. Sean whispered to Jim who was helping him with adjusting the children. "Please don't ask about it in front of the children, but all the kids have permission to just wet their pants while we are out. The hospital put them all in diapers just a little earlier. They are having a hard time, and I just didn't want any surprises if someone leaked or did something a little smellier." Jim’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he only nodded and adjusted the passenger seat forward without comment. The engine rumbled to life, vibrating through the floorboards where Aoife’s sandals tapped nervously against the metal. Greinne curled into Susan’s side, her fingers tracing the edge of the gauze on her wrist—a habit she didn’t seem aware of. The scent of antiseptic clung to her, faint but unmistakable under the van’s lemon air freshener. The eight year old boy leaned up as far as he could and he touched Greinne's hair that came over the seatback ever so lightly. "She has kind of sticky and slippery hair." "Michael, we don't touch without permission," Erica told him. Susan turned to Greinne, a whisper and somewhat friendly tone that I could barely hear. "When did you wash your hair last, honey?" "Last night," Greinne murmured. "When Ms. Erica told us to take baths." "I may have to wash your hair for you tonight," she whispered. Erinne, was in the last row with Erica and her two children. She still had the T-shirt, playing with it, balling it around and squeezing it from time to time. "I didn't mean to," Erinne whispered into the fabric, so softly even Erica barely caught it. The van's tires hummed over asphalt, muffling her words further. Erica hesitated, then reached over—slow, telegraphing her movement—and gently squeezed Erinne's knee. The girl flinched, but didn't pull away. "No one blames you," Susan looked over the seat her. "You were hurt, too, even if not always in the same way as your sisters, baby." Erinne's breath hitched—a wet, ragged sound swallowed by the growl of the engine. Her fingers twisted deeper into Sean's undershirt, pulling threads loose at the hem. The van lurched over a pothole, jostling Greinne against Sorsche's shoulder. My youngest sister whimpered, her hands flying to her hips before Sean caught her wrists with a murmured warning. Jim's voice cut through the tension, falsely bright. "So, extra cheese or pepperoni?" Sean looked back at Erinne, then he whispered to Susan. "Find out the kind of pizza Erinne likes. She needs to know she's just as important to us as her sisters are." Susan nodded, turning back to Erinne with a gentleness that didn't quite hide the tremor in her hands. "Honey," she murmured, "what toppings make you happiest?" Erinne looked up at her with wide eyes. "You're not asking Cait?" Susan stroked her hair back gently. "Cait likes pepperoni—but I'm asking you, darling. Your favorites matter too." "I... I like Sausage or Canadian bacon.... But extras cost too much. Daddy just gets plain pepperoni or when it's really hard, just cheese pizza." Jim's hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going pale. Erica exhaled sharply through her nose—the same sound she’d made earlier when Cindy had dropped her juice box. The van’s AC hummed louder, suddenly too cold, prickling the fresh scratches on Erinne's arms. "I think," Sean said slowly, deliberately, like he was choosing each word with tweezers, "we'll get three large pies tonight. Sausage and Canadian bacon for Erinne. Pepperoni for Cait." His thumb brushed Greinne’s wrist where her pulse jumped. "And—what do you like, sweetheart?" The car came to a stop outside of a modest home, with two floors and a nice kept yard. "We're just stopping to get Sean a shirt," Jim told everyone. "And maybe the children can use the bathroom." Sean got out the back first as he was the closest adult to the sliding door, only having to get around me, and then he motioned everyone else out except Aoife who was on the other side of him and me. Then Aoife got out, and I guess Jim brought my chair around, and then finally Sean put me in my chair to go into the house. "Erinne, if you need to use the bathroom, Susan can take you." "But..., why?" "Because we don't want you cutting or something in there, honey. You are under stress, and it's our job right now to keep you safe." "I don't have to go," Erinne's lip wobbled a little like a two year old but she looked down not arguing. "Same with you, Sorsche, sweetie." "I'm okay," Sorsche smiled. "I already went just at the hospital... um... in my pants, remember?" Sean rubbed her back. "I know. It's okay. I was just making sure." And after they had confirmed that all us kids already did it, but the two littlest ones went in the bathroom, at which time Sean got a new shirt on from Jim, we were all taken back out to the car again. "Pizza time," both Sean and Jim said.

Fair enough, but Cindy didn't need to go at the time she tried to force her to go. The idea was to show how much in control Jennifer is, which is why I had the argument with Brenda and Jennifer, where it showed Brenda having to back down. It's not about Jennifer actually expecting them to make it all the time, but about Jennifer flaunting that she can control them. Maybe I've done a poor job of showing how much control she really has, even when everyone at school THINKS Brenda is the group leader. Well, I haven't really established yet, how Jennifer wants to use that against her, partially, because even I... as Jennifer, just haven't thought that far ahead yet. She might not really bring it up. There are some things that Daddy does have control over that even Jennifer has to get permission before she tries to break it.

"Brenda, you might think you are the leader, but I'm giving you all a chance now. Use the toilet. Lena goes in an hour, and if she's wet, you'll be helping me with her since you all insisted on this instead of what my dad wanted." This was in Chapter Nine... The point is... Yes, she is controlling them. No, Cindy doesn't need her permission exactly, but if you read a bit more about how the Greiveres are... you hopefully start to get the idea that yeah, it's not usually a good idea to go against them if they want you to do something. It's not the pretzel that pushed her too far. It's the whole thing that has been happening all day, it just felt like one more triumph especially after she used the idea that her being poor is the reason she can't help things, and because it seemed that Jennifer was targeting her mom... by saying that she wouldn't be able to wait until lunch like the rest of the group.

Chapter 10 The Real Power? As we kept walking through the mall, I caught the smell of the pretzel stand before I saw it. The scent of warm bread, cinnamon, and sugar drifted over to us. My eyes stung, and my stomach growled. I love pretzels. However, I didn’t want Jennifer to buy me more than she had to. Every time she did something for me, like getting new sheets or blankets for my sister, it felt like she was winning some kind of contest over my mom and me. "I think someone is hungry," Cindy said, looking at me and then at Jennifer. It wasn’t an unfair guess. “You think so?” Jennifer asked Cindy. “Who else thinks she might be hungry?” “Well, we all know she’s too skinny for a diet,” Barbara reminded us all. “And remember those pathetic lunches she would bring to school? I’d bet she’s just used to eating less because of how little her family could give her.” Jennifer looked from Barbara to me, as though she considered what Barbara said. It might have been the way she narrowed her eyes, the way she stared intently not at my eyes, but at my chest, as if trying to judge my weight, or maybe it was that everyone had gone silent with it. Something flickered in her gaze, a hint of something more than just judgment—an internal struggle she masked with her usual indifference. It was as though she weighed the responsibility thrust upon her and the facade she needed to maintain. Whatever it was, I could tell Jennifer was thinking about what Barbara had said, not just as idle gossip, but as something that scratched at the surface of her well-guarded emotions. “My parents fed me just fine,” I whispered, knowing that we didn’t have as much as they did, but I still felt like things were good when Dad was alive. “Whether you were fed just fine or not...,” Jennifer frowned. “Your health and your access to food is more my responsibility now than it is your mom’s. I am supposed to be your employer, and if one of my friends thinks you are hungry, then it would be neglect for me to not get you something to eat.” I sighed. “I am sure I can wait until lunch just like the rest of you.” “Just because you CAN wait doesn’t mean you HAVE to wait,” Jennifer shook here head. “There is a pretzel place right there. Barbara, why don’t you get us all one, that way little Lena doesn’t have to feel bad eating in front of us?” I shook with the indignation that they seemed to make it something I begged for... like I was a toddler or something. “Sure. What flavor does everyone want?” “Get Lena a cinnamon one,” Jennifer stood back her hand on her hips as if she was in charge, her head held high. “And I want a cheesy one.” “Plain for me,” Brenda shook her head. “So many calories, Jennifer,” she tsked with a finger wag. “Just because you need to improve your image doesn’t mean no one has a good image,” Jennifer quipped back, which caused Brenda to frown sourly at Jennifer. “Can I get a cinnamon-flavored one, too?” Cindy asked. “Of course,” Jennifer gave Barbara the money. Barbara returned with the pretzels, and Jennifer handed me mine with a flourish, as if bestowing some grand favor. The pretzel was warm, almost burning my fingertips through the thin paper. I hesitated, the cinnamon sugar scent suddenly cloying. Across from me, Jennifer watched, her lips curled in that faint, expectant smile—like she was waiting for me to thank her or beg for more. The difficult thing was, mom always told me to be polite when I was offered something, and whether I liked it or not, that's what Jennifer was doing, though thanking her tasted like sand mixed in urine- foul mud. Still. "Thank you," I mumbled. Jennifer's eyelids lowered halfway—that slow, deliberate blink she did when she knew she'd won something. Her fingers lingered near mine as I took the pretzel, her nails glossed in that pale pink she always wore. "You don't have to pretend you don't love these," she said, voice honeyed. "I remember Freshman year when you'd trade your entire lunch for half of Cindy's pretzel." I couldn't deny it. I had never traded anything to Cindy, though. She was a part of Jennifer's ugly squad that seemed to send the rest of us seeking cover in places that may even put those on Jennifer's radar more strongly in front and center, just to be ignored. I did trade with this other girl, though, Hannah. I shook my head. "Just because I like them doesn't mean that...." but I just faltered when she stared into my eyes for a moment, then down at my skirt where we all knew I wasn't wearing anything natural underneath it, and then at my hands. "Did you forget who you work for?" Jennifer asked me as though I had done something wrong. "The contract doesn't say...," I started. Jennifer's hand shot up between us, fingers spread like a stop sign. "The contract says what I say it says." Her thumb grazed the corner of my pretzel, smearing cinnamon sugar onto her nail. She rubbed it off with slow, deliberate strokes against her thumb pad. "And right now, it says you'll eat that while I explain exactly how things work while you are being employed and your mother is being employed by my father. You know we don't have to do any of this, don't you?" Cindy shifted beside me, her knee bumping mine under the table. Her pretzel was already half-eaten, flakes of sugar stuck to her lower lip. She didn't look at me. Brenda stared at Jennifer like she was watching a tennis match, her own untouched pretzel wilting in her grip. Brenda finally tore off a piece of her pretzel, chewing with exaggerated slowness as if to prove she wasn’t actually hungry. The silence stretched between us, brittle as sugar glaze. Jennifer leaned in, the scent of her vanilla perfume mixing with the cinnamon from my untouched pretzel. "You know," she murmured, tapping one polished nail against the table, "your mom cried when my dad offered her the job. Real tears. Down on her knees, grateful." "Anyone in my mom's place would," I frowned at her. "That doesn't give him or you the right to take advantage of her, does it?" Jennifer smirked, leaning back against the bench with her arms crossed. The pretzel grease had left a faint sheen on her fingers. "See, that’s where you’re wrong. It's not taking advantage—it's opportunity." Her tongue flicked out to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth. "Your mom gets paid. You get fed. And all you have to do is remember your place." I sighed. I knew this was going somewhere. She had the contract, and I had already beaten her with her father agreeing to my terms two different times. I suppose she thought having me with her friends, alone, without the reasonable businessman father around, would allow her to bully me. I sighed again. Why wouldn't she? She'd bullied not only me, but our whole class all year before, at school. I looked at Cindy and Brenda, and neither one of them was looking at me. I frowned. Did she bring them along just to prove something to them? Was she trying to make some kind of point? Jennifer leaned forward again, her nails tapping against the table. "Unless you'd rather I tell Daddy you're refusing to cooperate? You did agree to the contract terms. Or would you rather Daddy not get involved, send your mom to jail, and your little sister into foster care, and you'd still be stuck at my house, being my little doll--to be played with at my whim, because believe me, he can arrange it." Brenda choked on her pretzel, coughing into her napkin. Cindy’s fingers tightened around her drink, condensation dripping onto her lap. Neither looked up. Jennifer’s gaze never left mine, her smile widening fractionally at the edges—like she was savoring the way my breath hitched. "Your little sister? How much do you want to protect her?" Jennifer's natural smile spread into a large, toothy one like a lion having found a gift-wrapped bull elephant completely crippled and unable to defend itself. Just think about that before you say your next thought." My fingers curled around the pretzel, crushing the soft dough. Cinnamon sugar stuck to my palms, gritty and too sweet. The paper wrapper rustled loudly in the sudden quiet. Across the table, Cindy’s knee jerked against mine again—quick, insistent. A warning or a plea, I wasn’t sure. Jennifer’s nail tapped once more against the tabletop, a metronome counting down to something. Brenda had stopped chewing entirely, her throat working like she was swallowing glass. The mall’s ambient noise—distant laughter, squeaking sneakers—felt muffled, as if someone had stuffed cotton in my ears. It was surreal the way Brenda seemed to have stopped chewing, and I couldn't tell if she had planned this with Brenda, or if Brenda was truly horrified by just how evil Jennifer was. I had always pegged Brenda as the ringleader, so I didn't think anything Jennifer did would surprise her. I swallowed, my throat dry despite the cloying sugar scent clinging to the air. Jennifer's fingers drummed again—one, two, three—before she plucked a piece of my crushed pretzel from the wrapper and popped it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, her tongue swiping at a stray fleck of cinnamon on her lip. "So?" she murmured, tilting her head. "What's it gonna be, Lena? Playtime... or consequences?" "Look, what is it you want?" I asked. "I've already agreed to a lot of terms, a lot of them very sick and quite humiliating in the contract. I don't understand what I even did wrong here? It's not like I told you no, even." "You were turning down an employer's generosity," Jennifer gave a slight pout at the table at large. "Didn't she just say that she might like pretzels, but was about to argue with me about getting her one?" Barbara nodded sagely. "That's right," she murmured, turning as if this were some kind of tribunal. "She was pretending to be too proud to take charity," she sniffed. "Which is bs--she's happy to take Jennifer's dad's money for her mom's bills." Brenda frowned at me. "You know, unless you have lunch money, I'd reconsider your attitude. If you can't even accept a pretzel from Jennifer as a snack, I doubt I'd waste my breath getting you any lunch later, and I doubt anyone else would either." Cindy nodded. "Jennifer's right, though. You DON'T have to wait if you don't HAVE to. No one wants you to go hungry, Lena. You don't have to be so stubborn about accepting help." "You are poor," Jennifer pointed out the elephant in the room. "Everyone knows it. That's why your mom needs Daddy's help, and why you and your sister can't help being dirty all the time. I bought you some nice things to help you, and I even got you some warm blankets because you know your mommy doesn't have money to do that. And yes, you are not going to get in trouble if you pee on the blankets. You are too poor to know better than to not wet the bed, baby." I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. The pretzel crumbs stuck to my skin like sandpaper. Across from me, Cindy’s knee pressed harder against mine—a silent pressure that felt more like a shackle than comfort. Brenda’s face had gone pale, her pretzel abandoned on the napkin as if it had turned to ash. I looked at Brenda for moments, trying to decipher her actions. Was she not the leader and the most evil of these elite rich hags, or wasn't she? I had seen her many times before at school, directing the hags towards their targets. She seemed to call out commands to have people hold others or to fetch their cell phones from them. So, why wasn’t she resisting Jennifer, if she was teh boss? "We'll work on bedwetting only after we get you used to not peeing in your pants in the daytime, sweetheart." Jennifer seemed to miss the subtle things that Brenda and Cindy were doing. Brenda's fingers twitched against her untouched pretzel, her knuckles whitening. She looked away from Jennifer—just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough. The corner of her mouth flexed, like she was biting back words. Jennifer looked around at the other girls. "Who here doesn't remember how my little servant smelled all day the last week of school before the summer break?" I knew it would be a lie if any of them said I didn't smell. Poor Nadia had peed on me by accident during the night a few times that week, and the third time it happened, we didn't even have running water. Barbara sat up straighter, her chin lifting. "I remember," she said, voice clinical. "It was ammonia and bleach. Like a bus station bathroom." Jennifer scoffed. "It was nothing like that, though, was it, Lena? I could go to your sister's school and tell them she peed the bed all last year, if you prefer? Imagine her class... calling her names, and talking about the ten-year-old that ...." the threat trailed off. "Fine! No! I peed the bed," I half lied. I sometimes did do it. We were too poor to find a doctor who would tell me why it was happening. I'd been struggling with it for about two years now. My sister did wet the bed recently, but only because daddy got sent away a lot, and she started to feel unsafe, especially just around February. That's when she started to do it. Cindy's knee jerked harder against mine—quick, sharp—like she was trying to break my leg under the table. Brenda’s nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, her fingers twitching on the pretzel wrapper. Jennifer’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before it hardened again, her polished nail tapping a staccato rhythm against the tabletop. "Interesting," she murmured. "So it’s true. And here I thought you’d lie." "You promised to leave my sister alone in our contract. If you are going to bother her, even after all this, then I will not only quit, but I'll tell my mom everything, and that your dad can't be trusted, whatever he promised her. I wouldn't be surprised if your dad believed my mom because he had something to do with the bank troubles?" Jennifer's breath hitched—just once—before she folded her hands primly in her lap. The gloss on her nails caught the fluorescent mall light. "You think my father would let your mother believe anything you say?" She leaned in, her whisper honeyed with venom. "Who do you think approves her paycheck? Who do you think signs the eviction notice if she steps out of line?" "Both my mom and I are aware of that, Jennifer. But you'd better think about this! Your dad is technically breaking the law, forcing me to sign that contract. I am not eighteen. The working hours are well beyond what a minor should be working, and if the police find out he is forcing my mom to work, don't you think they'd check into him for other things, like say... human trafficking?" Jennifer's tapping nail froze mid-air. Brenda exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tightening around her drink until the plastic cracked. Cindy's knee jerked again—this time not against mine, but bouncing wildly under the table like she was trying to shake something loose. "You are right. The only reason my mom doesn't go straight to the police right now is that your dad seems to be able to keep her out of jail, and my little sister with her mom. But don't you think I wouldn't give up that protection, if it keeps my sister from being messed with by YOU. If I cannot trust you to keep your end of the contract, at least with my sister, then I have no reason to keep the contract, got it?" Jennifer’s fingers twitched toward her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen—halfway between a threat and a plea. The vanilla scent of her perfume had turned cloying, mixing with the acrid sweat beading at her hairline. Brenda’s pretzel snapped in her grip, the sound like a dry twig breaking. "I wasn't threatening your sister," Jennifer finally said as she put the phone down, as if she had only been checking the time. "I was just upset that you tried to refuse a gift. I was being nice to you, and you threw it in my face. I will not tolerate that while you are my servant. If I want you to eat, you eat, unless you really can't because you are sick or full. If I tell you to use the toilet even off schedule, you thank me, and you do it. That's all I was trying to assert here. You are my servant, as long as you want your mom and your sister to stay together. Right?" Brenda's fingers twitched toward Jennifer's wrist—aborted movement—before she snatched her hand back into her lap. The cracked plastic cup tipped over, ice cubes scattering across the table like dice. Cindy's bouncing knee stilled abruptly, her breath shallow through parted lips. "Just remember," I gave Jennifer a hard look. "My sister is off limits. Above all else, messing with me, and yeah, I'll throw a fit, but with my sister, there will be no fit. It will be a silent resignation, and the police will be looking into your family employing underaged girls, and possibly human trafficking, and maybe even illegal things that hurt other people who are citizens in this country. I'm not as weak as some of those other girls your evil gang of hags tries to control." Jennifer's lips parted—just enough for the tip of her tongue to flick against her teeth—before she smoothed her expression into something bored. Brenda exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers twitching toward her abandoned pretzel before curling into fists. Cindy's leg bumped mine again—gentler this time—her thigh pressing warm and steady against me like a silent ally. "Well, whatever you call us, I don't think I was being a hag by feeding you. So, do you want to see a movie, or not? I can send you home if you don't want to see a movie. But the rule will be... no toilet at all until I get home." Jennifer was fighting for control over me. I let her have this one, though. "I can watch a movie, or you can punish me and send me home. Whatever you want. I'll do it. We understand each other now, don't we?" Jennifer's fingers twitched toward her phone again—hesitating—before she slid it back into her pocket with deliberate slowness. The cinnamon sugar on my hands had turned sticky, clinging to the folds of my skirt as I clenched the fabric. Brenda's breath hitched when Jennifer's gaze flicked toward her, as if waiting for backup that wasn't coming. "Honestly, she made one mistake," Brenda said in an awkward silence. "Just let her watch a movie, Jennifer. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to get her some school stuff so she wouldn't embarrass you when you had to keep near her to make her behave?" Jennifer's fingers curled around her purse strap—tight, then looser—as if recalibrating her grip on the situation. Beneath the table, Cindy’s foot nudged mine, sliding sideways until our ankles touched. Not a warning this time. Solidarity. I studied Cindy a little more. I thought she was the coldest of them, having been the first one to think I needed diapers or something on this ride. Cindy tore her pretzel in half and pushed half of it towards Barbara. "Thank you for the pretzel, Jenny, but I'm not that hungry. I think Barbara is, though." Jennifer looked up at Barbara and then back at Cindy before nodding. Barbara hesitated, her fingers hovering over the offered pretzel half before withdrawing. Jennifer's gaze flicked between them, her throat working silently like she was swallowing something sharp. The air smelled suddenly of burnt sugar and Brenda's jasmine perfume gone sour with sweat. "Okay, well, I'm getting my little servant some school things, so does anyone else want to do school shopping or not?" Jennifer frowned up at the others. Brenda exhaled sharply, her fingers twitching toward Jennifer's sleeve before she pulled her hand back. "Actually, I think I'm gonna head home early." She stood abruptly, her chair screeching against the tile. The pretzel wrapper crumpled in her grip, cinnamon sugar dusting the table like evidence. "Go ahead, Brenda," Jennifer frowned. "And don't even bother sitting with us at school next week." I watched Brenda's face crumple before she smoothed it into resignation. "Fine. I'll stay." She sat back down, her fingers clutching the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The sugar flakes on her abandoned pretzel had dissolved into tiny wet stains, like tears. And when Brenda's resolve crumbled, that meant the rest of them, no matter how badly they wanted to follow Brenda in leaving, they'd also follow her in staying. "Good," Jennifer said as though they had just agreed over something trivial. "So, everyone finish up your pretzels, and Barbara, go ahead and be nice and take Cindy's gift. Then we can start looking at school stuff." Barbara hesitated, glancing at Cindy's half-pretzel like it might bite her. Slowly, she picked it up, her fingers trembling just enough to make sugar flakes rain onto the table. She didn't take a bite—just held it, her knuckles whitening. Jennifer's smile flickered as she watched, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of mall music and the squeak of sneakers on tile. Brenda's breath came too fast, her chest rising and falling like she'd just run upstairs. "Look, ladies, aren't we supposed to be having fun? What? Do you want me to just give Lena permission to wet her pants? If that's what you want, I can just do that...." Barbara's fingers twitched violently, sending her half-pretzel skidding across the table. Cindy's knee pressed harder against mine—no longer a warning but a demand—as Jennifer's gaze swept over us, her smirk widening at the way Brenda's shoulders hunched forward. I picked up the pretzel that came across the table at me, and I pushed it back towards Barbara who took it, and with a heavy sigh and a sour face, as if biting into a lemon, she bit into it. A sign she knew what she had to do. Brenda bit into hers, and then Cindy. I looked at Cindy, not sure what her demand was, but I bit into the pretzel I had. Barbara's chewing was slow, deliberate—like she was counting each grind of her molars. Cinnamon sugar stuck to her lower lip, but she didn't lick it away. Jennifer watched her with narrowed eyes, fingers drumming against her thigh where no one else could see. The silence was thick enough to choke on. "Now, we have about two hours before we are supposed to catch up with Angela and Hannah, so I suggest you all either get your attitude and loyalty in check, or some of us might be made fun of for what she comes to school in. Understand?" Jennifer looked more at Brenda than anyone else, staring her down. Brenda's hands clenched around her purse strap—tight, then looser—as if recalibrating her grip on the situation. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her jaw working silently before she gave a single, stiff nod. The pretzel crumbs stuck to her fingertips like sand. Cindy's ankle pressed harder against mine beneath the table—not quite reassurance, not quite restraint. We finally got up, and the girls were a bit quiet for a bit. I wondered how loyal they really were, or if they were mostly just kissing up to the Grievere family name. But we did end up going towards an expensive stationery shop first. Barbara held the door open for me, but Jennifer put her hand on my shoulder to stop me from going in yet. "Wouldn't want Lena breaking anything, or stealing pens. She'll join us once we've gotten what she needs. Meanwhile, Brenda, I think you should stay with her and keep her out of trouble." Brenda exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers twitching against her purse strap, but she nodded. The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting shadows under her eyes that made her look older suddenly—bone-tired and brittle. While the others went in, Jennifer still pretty normal towards Barbara, but both of them flanking Cindy on each side, as though she was being watched, as well. "So, have you and Jennifer always been friends?" I asked Brenda while we waited outside in the hallway, sitting on a low wall that had a tree planted in a planter in the middle of the hall, like a divider meant to direct traffic. I knew that Jennifer had always had people around her, since fifth grade that did what she wanted, but other than the rumors, I didn't really notice until last year when I saw her getting really mean with people. Brenda's fingers dug into the faux marble ledge, her knuckles whitening against the polished surface. The mall's recycled air smelled faintly of chlorine and burnt coffee—harsh against the cinnamon still clinging to my tongue. "You really don't get it," she muttered, her gaze tracking Jennifer through the store window. Barbara was holding up a leather-bound planner while Cindy pretended to examine pens, her shoulders rigid. "We weren't friends. Her father bought my uncle's construction company last year. Now my cousins deliver groceries at night." "But, you were the one that mostly picked on people at school last year, and told the group what you were going to do, as far as everyone at school could hear?" I shuffled my Mary-Janes against my legs shaking a little. Brenda's laugh was brittle—too loud—echoing off the storefront glass. A passing couple glanced over, their steps quickening. "That was the deal," she whispered, thumb rubbing raw circles over her palm. "Public performances keep Daddy Grievere happy." I felt the crinkle of the plastic in my panties, and knew too well, what she meant. "So, why follow her if she ruined your Uncle? Did she threaten you further? Is there a chance she or her family caused the trouble that happened that got my dad killed?" Brenda's fingers clenched around her purse strap—tight, then looser—as if she was recalibrating her grip on reality. The faint scent of her lavender hand cream mixed with the acrid sweat beading at her temples. "You don't ask questions like that," she murmured, her gaze darting to the store window where Jennifer was now inspecting Cindy's shopping basket with exaggerated scrutiny. "Not if you want to keep breathing." "You could just try to avoid her, and stop hanging out with her at school and stuff?" I asked nervously, knowing she was going to say it as impossible, like trying to get away from the mob or something. Brenda didn't answer immediately. Instead, she traced the scar along the base of her thumb—thin and pale, like a snapped thread. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly green reflections in her nail polish. "Three months ago," she said finally, "my best friend switched schools after 'falling' down the library stairs." She flexed her thumb, watching the scar stretch. "Jennifer pushed her." "That was near the end of school, but Jennifer wasn't anywhere near her. She was too busy making my life miserable then?" I whimpered. Brenda exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers twitching against the marble ledge like she wanted to rip it loose. Through the store window, Jennifer was holding up a neon pink binder against Barbara’s blushing face while Cindy watched, her grip tightening around a pen until the plastic cracked audibly even through the glass. "Jennifer’s hands don’t get dirty," Brenda muttered. "Her dad sends people." I shook my head. "So going against her, is really, just a suicide note?" Brenda's fingers twitched toward her throat—quick, reflexive—before she flattened them against her thighs. The scent of her lavender hand cream mixed with the acrid tang of the cleaning solution they used on the marble walls, turning thick and cloying. Through the storefront glass, Jennifer was tapping a glitter gel pen against Barbara's wrist in mock sternness while Cindy pretended to examine notebooks, her shoulders stiff as coat hangers. I remember Cindy trying to tell me to do something with gestures under the table while we ate pretzels. I felt her leg movements against mine, and I wondered if she was warning me, if she was threatening me, or if she was trying to somehow communicate something to me. I sighed. "What do you think Jennifer wants me to do right now? I don't want my little sister to ...." Brenda's thumb dug into the groove of her scar, pressing until the skin blanched white around it. Through the store window, Jennifer was now sliding the glitter pen down Barbara's forearm, her smirk widening as Barbara flinched but didn't pull away. Cindy's reflection in the glass showed her gripping a notebook so tightly the cover bent backward with a faint crack. "Jennifer will let you know when she's ready," Brenda frowned as she looked in and saw the same scene I did. Barbara was staring down at her forearm, where Jennifer had drawn a line so hard it left a red welt. The gel pen was still in Jennifer's hand, its glitter catching the store lights like tiny knives. Cindy's reflection stared at Barbara's wrist—not at the welt, but at the way Barbara's fingers trembled as she reached for another binder without protest. "You being left out here to 'babysit me,' do you think that was a way of her punishing you for trying to leave earlier?" I was starting to catch on to how much control Jennifer really had over these girls, and even though Barbara had been the most obedient, it didn't seem that she was obedient enough because Jennifer was taunting her. Brenda's knuckles whitened against the marble ledge, her thumb pressing harder into that pale scar until the skin puckered. The scent of her lavender hand cream soured with sweat. Through the storefront, Cindy had moved closer to Barbara—close enough that her elbow brushed Barbara's ribs—but Jennifer wedged herself between them, gel pen twirling between her fingers like a conductor's baton. Suddenly, Cindy's face went pale as Jennifer stared at her, expectantly, but her mouth wasn't moving. She was just staring, and Cindy was shaking. I looked at Brenda, who looked away from the scene unfolding inside. "You see?" Brenda whispered, her breath hitching as Jennifer slid the glitter pen into Cindy's trembling hand, curling her fingers around it with deliberate care. "She doesn't need to say anything anymore." Horrified by something I couldn't get a clear view of, Barbara stepped away from Cindy. Jennifer backed away casually, and Cindy, stared at the floor aghast as though something scaly had crawled out of it. I couldn't see the floor, but could see that whatever they were looking at, it came from there. Brenda's fingers dug into my sleeve—too tight—as Cindy slowly knelt. The gel pen rolled from her limp fingers, its glitter catching the fluorescent lights like broken glass. Through the window, Barbara had pressed both hands against her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs that fogged the glass between us. "I think Cindy has just pissed herself," Brenda finally whispered. "Jennifer's doing. And Barbara had allowed her to draw on her arm with the pen so she wouldn't suffer the same fate, I am guessing." They came out, Jennifer carrying four bags of stuff, Barbara carrying four bags of staff, and Cindy carrying two bags. Cindy's face was so blazing that it looked like she'd been in the sun way too long. Her skirt was soaked. "I told Cindy to use the bathroom earlier, didn't I, Brenda?" Brenda's breath hitched, but she nodded. "That's why you do as I say. I know what will happen if you don't," Jennifer said to all of us. "I predicted that Cindy would pay for not going then, and now, here she is... regretting not going earlier like I told her to." Cindy's soaked skirt clung to her thighs, the fabric darkening further as a thin trickle ran down her leg and pooled around her shiny black high heels. The ammonia smell mixed with Barbara's rose-scented hand sanitizer, creating a nauseating sweetness that made my eyes water. Jennifer adjusted the bags in her arms, her manicured fingers tapping against the plastic handles in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "I know you want to see your stuff," Jennifer smiled at me. "But we do need to get to the movie theater soon. I dare say Angela should already be there with Hanna. And Cindy, don't you even think of trying to back out... unless you want me to post this online for the whole school to see the first day back." Jennifer showed Cindy's skirt darkening and the pee running down her legs. Barbara twitched violently—her manicured fingers digging into the paper bags—as Jennifer tapped her phone screen twice, saving the incriminating footage. Cindy's breath came in shallow gasps, her soaked hem dripping onto the tile in sync with the mall's ticking clock above the fountain. The ammonia stench mixed with Barbara's rose-scented sanitizer, turning the air thick and cloying. "And... Since Cindy had decided to wait and pee her pants instead of using the toilet earlier, I think she should babysit Lena and Hannah. They are too poor and too immature to watch what the rest of us are watching, and now, it seems Cindy is just as immature. And Lena, since Cindy just gave you an example, I suppose you will follow her example during the movie, as will Hannah. You will." Jennifer handed Cindy one of her store bags—too fast—letting it drop before Cindy's trembling fingers could catch it. Plastic crinkled against the tile as Cindy's soaked high heels shuffled backward, leaving wet footprints that mirrored the dark stain spreading across her skirt. Barbara's grip on her own bags tightened, her knuckles pressing white against the pink-and-gold shopping bags like bones trying to escape skin. "You'll carry Lena's things too," Jennifer said, nudging the fallen bag toward Cindy with the toe of her ballet flat. The scent of ammonia clung to the soles of Jennifer's shoes as she stepped back, her smile widening at Barbara's suppressed flinch. Cindy's breath hitched—audible—as she bent to retrieve the bag, her wet skirt peeling away from her thighs with a sound like tape being ripped off skin. I shook my head and followed as Jennifer had already started walking, not even giving Cindy enough time to recover from everything that had happened. Barbara’s lips trembled as she adjusted her grip on the bags, her polished nails digging crescent moons into the plastic. Ahead of us, Jennifer hummed softly—a pop song about love and betrayal—her ballet flats clicking against the tiles in perfect rhythm with the mall’s piped-in muzak. The air smelled suddenly of buttered popcorn and ammonia as we passed the pretzel stand, its warm cinnamon scent now soured by the memory of Cindy’s humiliation. Cindy lagged behind, her wet shoes squeaking with each step. The darkened fabric of her skirt clung to her thighs, the hemline dripping steadily onto the mall floor like a broken faucet. She clutched both bags to her chest like a shield, her knuckles pressing white against the paper. Beside me, Brenda exhaled sharply through her nose—two short bursts, like a warning signal—as Jennifer slowed near the theater’s velvet ropes, her manicured fingers tapping against her phone screen.

Sorry. My brain doesn't like schedules when it comes to writing. I did look at this one a couple of times, but though I know where I want to go with it, I just haven't figured out, yet, how to get it there. I'm not giving up, just taking my time to try to get it there the best way I know. So until I figure it out, I'll be writing on Sent Away.

Chapter Fourteen My Legs, My Sisters, Raw Love! I was in the house, the living room as dim-dark as a bear-den. The television was on a low hum, and Sorsche and Aoife were watching it. I was at the table, my homework out, watching from far away. It must have been one of those days that Erinne watched us, and Mama had told her to make sure I did my homework. Greinne had called out sharply. Her eyes were red, and tears were falling down her face like a waterfall. She gritted her teeth, and a more growl-screech came from her mouth than a wail of a cry. "I told you," Erinne had been yelling at her.... But then darkness. The dream or memory or whatever it was started to fade into a red-magenta light, behind closed eyes. My eyeballs rolled around behind the shutters of eyelids, and consciousness started to pull me out of that moment. A moment of a few months ago, when Greinne had gotten that yellowish mark around her left eye that hadn't fully healed yet. I felt a little thud thud thud starting to pick up into a spray and then a full-on flood flowing into my diaper as my stomach seemed to deflate just a moment before my eyes opened. I knew that Susan had picked up my sisters and Mama, but only Mama had visited earlier. This time, when I opened my eyes.... Aoife was standing next to Susan, watching me intently—that sharp, assessing look she used to give Daddy when he'd come home with whiskey-breath. Greinne hovered near the foot of the bed, fingers pinching the hem of her sweater, her yellowing bruise now a sickly green at the edges. Erinne was standing near the window as far from the bed as she could, but still further towards me than Mama and Susan. Sean, always the vigilant soldier, stood right at my bedside. He had Ms Whiskers in his hand, the rabbit he and Susan had gotten me a few days ago when they took me to Wyoming. "Are you okay?" Greinne asked me in a whisper from the foot, her head down but glancing through the top of her hair at Sean like she often did Daddy when Daddy had to hit me, and Greinne knew she better not get in the way. I sighed. "We're safe here, Greinne." Aoife snorted—half-disbelief, half-amusement—her fingers tapping against her thigh in a rhythm I recognized from the times she'd crawled over me, knowing I'd peed the bed, but tried to tell daddy she had done it. The hospital gown rustled as I shifted, the diaper beneath crinkling softly; Sean didn't flinch, but Greinne's shoulders hunched like she'd been caught stealing candy. Sorsche, down my Greinne at the foot of the bed, but having been on her knees, had only poked her head up after she'd heard me speak. Her long, dark brown hair hung off the sides of her face, oily and unwashed, for days. Susan and Mama were whispering something between them. Sean placed Ms. Whiskers at my head, closer to me, in a place where I could reach for her when I was ready. Erinne seemed to be watching the parking lot like a hawk. Some moments, she would glance over at Mama with a sour look, and then over at me, with something foreign. I couldn't make sense of her at the moment. I'd never seen her give a look like she did me, just then. Our mixed-up family, with Erinne being only Daddy’s girl. Sorsche was only Mama’s, and although I should have been Daddy’s, I was more treated like I didn’t belong at all. The three of us created quite a dynamic for our parents. Especially Erinne, loved to push her limits, to see how much she could get away with being a brat to Mama, and how much Daddy would defend her. Greinne, about six months older than me, and Aoife, two years younger than me, were the only ones who were both of theirs. Really theirs. Erinne never did like Sorsche, but more than Sorsche, she’d always pick fights and hurt Greinne. I never really understood why. Daddy would always punish Sorsche and me. Erinne would get some screeching from Mama, but Mama never laid a hand on her—probably too scared to, and Aoife. Aoife was never hit by anyone as far as I knew. Greinne moved a little closer to me, now halfway between the foot of my bed and my knees. Aoife meandered towards Greinne, getting just in front of her, her little seven-year-old self just small enough that Greinne's already ten-year-old self was easily able to see over her. "Is Caitlin going to get better?" the little one asked, her eyes looking up at her big sister. "Get better?" Greinne frowned and then lifted Aoife to the side of the bed, putting her near my knees. "They haven't told me anything more than they told you," she whispered. "But I think that's why she's in bed here. They trying to fix her up." Aoife sighed. Sorsche reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of my blanket—hesitant, like she was testing the heat of a stove. Her nails were bitten raw, the skin around them pink and angry. "They said your nerves were all... tangled," she murmured, her voice fraying at the edges. "Like when Aoife knots her jump rope so bad even Mama can't undo it." Aoife giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to Erinne by the window. Even if Erinne never hit Aoife directly, there were times when Erinne was in charge, and if Aoife did something wrong, she would give her a look or slap something just right, that caused Aoife to jump. She had learned well how to intimidate her, just like Daddy intimidated Sorsche and me all the time. Sorsche's eleven-year-old mind was quick when she spoke. "That's why they say you pee your pants?" I sighed with a shrug. "I pee my pants because... it safer to do," I reminded Sorsche. "Daddy acspected it." "Yeah, I know. But what about now, when you weren't even at home?" "I told her to," a quiet voice from the window, almost too quiet to have realized anyone spoken at all. "I told her to do it, so that Daddy wouldn't throw her out or get mad at her for faking her accidents." Sorsche frowned. "Would you have told her to pee her pants if you knew?" "That we would all be dragged out of our house, across to another state, and daddy would not even be here with us?" Erinne seemed to get a higher pitch as she spoke, each phrase threatening to start her crying. "No. Of course not. But Cait must have done it wrong. She's so stupid, sometimes." I sighed and looked down. "Why are you calling her stupid if you told her to do it?" Sorsche asked. Erinne's hands clenched into fists at her sides, her knuckles whitening. "Because she messed it up—like always," she muttered, but there was something hollow in her voice, like she was repeating words she'd heard too many times in the dark. Those were not really her words. She told me often, when no one was listening, that I was smarter than that. Those words were from the man who taught Erinne to be cruel. Aoife wrinkled her nose, her small fingers clutching the hospital blanket. "But Caitlin ain't stupid," she protested, her voice wobbling with the effort of standing up to Erinne. "She peed her pants so Daddy wouldn't hit her. That's smart." Erinne sighed. "She didn't do it often enough or at school when she should have, and she must have made a mistake with these people." Aoife frowned. "No," she whispered. "She did it just right." Erinne turned sharply—her braids snapping against her shoulders—but whatever acid she'd been about to spit dissolved when she saw Aoife clutching Greinne's sleeve, her knuckles white. "You... you know...," Sorsche looked to the back of the room and saw Mama there, not Daddy. "You know Aoife is right." Erinne's breath hitched—a wet, jagged sound—as she pressed her forehead against the cold windowpane. Outside, a crow pecked at something in the parking lot, its black wings ruffling in the wind. The glass fogged where Erinne's skin touched it. "I know," she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice. "But knowing doesn't make the screaming stop." The door opened, and I saw Sean, with his stone-etched face and heavy, strong body, walking towards me with the rolling gate that I knew would hold me every time I needed it. He crept up the other side of the bed towards me, avoiding getting too close to Sorsche, Greinne, and Aoife, as though he was trying to sneak up on a timid rabbit that he didn’t want to bother. “You’re awake, Cait,” he smiled. “So glad. The doctor was just talking to me about the other things they’ve found.” He hesitated, then carefully lifted my hand—slowly, like he was handling something fragile—and pressed Ms. Whiskers into my palm. The rabbit’s fur smelled faintly of lavender detergent, a sharp contrast to the antiseptic sting of the room. Behind him, Erinne’s reflection in the window twisted her mouth like she’d tasted something bitter, but when she turned, her face was smooth as stone. “It’s time they started to check Sorsche,” he told me. “You know the doctor needs to help build the case against that man. He should never have treated any of you the way he did. Though you don’t think he touched Erinne or Aoife, I do have suspicions.” Greinne started shaking, her fingers gripping Aoife tighter—not enough to hurt, but enough that Aoife leaned into her side. “But I don’t want to go to the doctor,” Sorsche whispered, her voice thinning to a thread. “I don’t want them to see.” "I know the kinds of things demons like that tell little princesses like you, honey.” His teeth seemed to bare for a moment like a dog about to lash out and bite someone that was tormenting it. “I know you're scared, but it will help to keep him from ever hurting you again." Sean reached a fiercely shaking hand over and laid it on my body, not too far from where she stood. It was nothing more than an offer, one she could choose to take or not. It was tied to his ever support that he always showed me. I whispered down at Sorsche. “Sean is safe. He won’t even call you stupid or anything if you pee your pants,” I told her. “You can trust him.” She blinked, her eyes darting to his hand, hovering near her shoulder—close enough to feel warmth, but not close enough to trap. Her breath hitched, uneven, like a sputtering engine. Aoife tugged Greinne’s sleeve, whispering loud enough for the whole room to hear: “He smells like pine needles.” As if that explained everything. I smiled. "And hay and earth." I still had his red plaid flannel shirt draped over my chest as like a blanket over the hospital bed one. I pulled it off and showed it to Sorsche. "You can borrow it, for comfort." Sorsche shook her head. She didn’t know about how Sean’s presence could drive away the scaries, but I knew that explaining it just didn’t really help anyone to understand. I just had to let my sisters figure him out on their own. She blinked at me, and I could see the twisting fear inside her—like a trapped animal trying to decide if the outstretched hand meant food or fingers to bite. Her lips parted, then sealed shut again—no words could undo what had already been done to her. "It's okay," Sean said, a voice of patience amid the shaking terror that I could see his hand going through at the thought of Daddy. Daddy was probably safer in jail than anywhere near us right now. I knew that Sean was getting more ravaging towards Daddy the more the doctors told him about what happened to just me, and now, he could see my four sisters, all with their own troubles. The crow outside cawed—a harsh, scraping sound—and Erinne flinched, her reflection tightening in the glass. Sean’s fingers twitched, then stilled. He didn’t reach for her. He just waited, letting the space between them hum with quiet tension. Doctor Henderson finally walked in, and he looked around at all the kids in the room. He had, of course, wanted this, or I doubt he would have let this many people in the room at once. He walked towards Susan. His voice was low and even. His steps were measured and professional. "Sorsche is the second eldest, right?" he asked her. "Yes," I could see Susan's eyes turn focus sharp as she pointed out Sorsche. "Be gentle with her. She's had it almost as bad as Cait." Doctor Henderson nodded, then knelt—slowly, like a man trying not to startle a wild animal—until he was eye-level with Sorsche. His tie brushed the floor, the silk pooling like spilled ink. "Sorsche," he said, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it, "do you know why we need to check you today?" Sorsche shook her head. "Daddy. He didn't do nothing to me. He just spanked, when I did bad. He didn't touch me bad. He didn't." I didn't think Daddy touched any of us that way, but I knew Sorsche had bruises on her like me, and I knew she had been kicked at least twice. She was probably as hurt as I was, but I knew the doctor would find it. I didn't have to say anything to the doctor. Doctor Henderson didn't press—just nodded once, his gaze flickering to the raw crescents bitten into Sorsche's palms. The fluorescent light caught the sheen of sweat along her hairline. "Sometimes," he said carefully, "our bodies keep score even when our mouths can't." His pen tapped lightly against his clipboard—three quiet clicks, like a code none of us could decipher. "May I see your hands?" Doctor Henderson didn't press—just nodded once, his gaze flickering to the raw crescents bitten into Sorsche's palms. The fluorescent light caught the sheen of sweat along her hairline. "Sometimes," he said carefully, "our bodies keep score even when our mouths can't." His pen tapped lightly against his clipboard—three quiet clicks, like a code none of us could decipher. "May I see your hands?" Sorsche's breath hitched, her fingers twitching toward her stomach before she thrust them out stiffly, palms up, like she was offering something stolen. The nurse stepped forward with a basin of warm water—no antiseptic smell, just plain water—and Doctor Henderson dipped a cloth in it. The droplets pattered softly as he wrung it out over the basin. "You're not in trouble," he murmured, dabbing at the ragged cuticles, his touch feather-light. "Bodies speak when words fail. Your sister's nerves screamed. Yours might whisper." The cloth came away pink-tinged; Sorsche hadn't realized she'd been picking at her hands until that moment. Aoife gasped—a tiny, wounded sound—and burrowed into Greinne's side. Erinne turned sharply from the window, her braid whipping against her shoulder like a cracked whip. "Stop it," she hissed, though whether to Sorsche, the doctor, or herself wasn't clear. Doctor Henderson didn't react to Erinne's outburst, his focus solely on Sorsche's trembling hands. "These little wounds," he murmured, tracing a fingertip just above the raw skin, never touching, "they're like Morse code. Your body spelling out what happened when you couldn't." "If I go with you to another room, what are you going to do there?" Sorsche asked. "I might not get a say, but at least, I can get ready, right?" Her voice was small—smaller than she was—and I saw her eyes dart to Erinne, then to Mama, as if waiting for someone to tell her no, to tell her she didn’t have the right to ask questions. Sean, however, narrowed his eyes at Erinne first, causing Erinne to turn away, so she looked out the window. Then to Mama, to make her look down. And then he whispered as low a growl as he could muster, "Baby, they are going to see what pain you've had to endure, and make sure that what has been done is healing as best it can. They are also going to be documenting so that we have a case to keep that monster from ever getting close to you again." "Monster?" Erinne's words were wrapped in tears and delivered in soft squeaks. "Daddy's not a monster! He's a man who has been trying. He's just stressed out!" Susan moved between Erinne and Sorsche, her arms crossed and her shoulders squared. "A man doesn't hurt children, Erinne. A man protects them." "Enough," Doctor Henderson said to Susan. "She's a child, and no doubt has her own baggage. Let me just take Sorsche first." Aoife's hands clenched Greinne's sleeve tighter, her knuckles whitening. "I'll go too," she blurted, her voice unexpectedly firm—a sapling standing straight in a storm. "If Sorsche's scared, I'll hold her hand." It must have looked strange to every adult in the room except Mama that the seven-year-old was trying to protect the second-oldest child, the Eleven-year-old, from being scared. "Honey, I think Sorsche would love you to come and comfort her," he patronized our seven-year-old baby sister. "But I can't have you come, honey. I need statements from you alone, and if you hear what she says, you might accidentally say what she says, instead of using your own words. I'm sorry, but I promise to return her as soon as I can." Sorsche's wide eyes darted between Aoife and Doctor Henderson, her lower lip trembling—caught between the desperate need to bolt and the quiet terror of being left alone with strangers. Greinne shifted, her fingers tightening around Aoife's shoulder—not pulling her away, but grounding herself in the contact. "I'll walk the child out," Sean told the doctor. "You don't have to say anything to her until she's settled and I'm gone again. She doesn't know me that well, but she's seen me pick up her sister at their old house, and I dare say, at least understands that Cait is safe in my house?" Doctor Henderson gave a single nod—more acknowledgement than agreement—and Sorsche flinched when Sean’s shadow fell across her, his bulk blocking the harsh overhead light. His boots scuffed against the linoleum as he knelt, the creak of his knees louder than his voice. "You remember me carrying Caitlin to my truck, don’t you?" he murmured. "How I didn’t let her feet touch the ground?" Sorsche nodded, and she looked up at him. There seemed to be a look in her eye, probably one of pleading, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t think she’d ever pleaded with anyone at our house before. Why would she? Mama could only protect her so much, and pleading with Daddy only got you in more trouble for talking back. Sean reached down and started to lift her. Sorsche yelped a little, more because of the surprise, but she didn't ask to be put down. That's when I saw part of her panties because her dress accidentally moved. Her panties looked wet, but maybe I imagined it. If you looked at Sean's reaction, you wouldn't be able to tell either way. Just like with me, he just held her and carried her, not caring if she peed her pants or not. Doctor Henderson walked slowly behind Sean as he carried Sorsche out the door. Their footsteps faded down the hallway, but I could still hear Sorsche's soft whimper—like a rabbit caught in a trap but trying not to scream. Erinne's face twisted into something ugly, her fingers digging into the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. "She's gonna tell," she hissed under her breath, like it was the worst betrayal she could imagine. "I already told you," I reminded Erinne. "If you are going to be mad at someone, be mad at me. I was stupid, be member? I got caught pooping my pants, and Sean and Susan decided it wasn't natural, so they took me here, and then it started everything. Blame me!" Erinne's breath caught—a wet, jagged sound—and her shoulders hitched like she'd been punched in the ribs. Greinne flinched, her fingers tightening around Aoife's shoulders, but it was Susan who moved first—her arms wrapping around Erinne from behind before the older girl could bolt. Erinne thrashed, her elbow catching Susan in the ribs with a dull thud, but Susan held firm, murmuring something low and steady into the crown of her braids. "Shush, baby," Susan told my eldest sister, thirteen-year-old Erinne. "Shush. None of this is your fault, baby." Erinne tried to pull back, but Susan had her good and in hand. She rocked with her body. It took several minutes, but eventually, Erinne was calm enough to ask. "You don't know anything. How do you know what is and isn't my fault?" Susan sighed, but she didn't let Erinne go. "Because I know what it's like to blame yourself for things you couldn't control," she murmured, her voice rough as gravel yet impossibly soft. "And I know the shape of guilt that isn't yours to carry." "But, I did blame Sorsche for everything. And I blamed Greinne. I got mad because they can see their Mama. Ever since Daddy started seeing Maire, back in Ireland, my Mom had to stop coming around. Then, we moved all the way across the world, and everyone had their Mama--except me... and Cait. That's why I didn't hit Cait." Susan exhaled slowly—a sound like wind through old rafters—and pressed her cheek against the top of Erinne’s braids. The girl smelled of sweat and shampoo, with a faint undercurrent of something metallic, like pennies left in a damp pocket. "Guilt doesn’t rust," she murmured. "It stains." "How come only Cait and me? How come we can't see our Mommies, but everyone else gets to see their Mommy? Daddy said my Mom was bad, so Maire told her not to come around no more, and she said that Cait's Mommy just left her, like she was an unwanted puppy your Dog accidentally had." Aoife's fingers went slack on Greinne's sleeve, her face crumpling like tissue paper in the rain. Susan's arms tightened around Erinne—not restraining, just holding—her knuckles pressing into the girl's ribs like braille. Outside, the crow took flight, its shadow flickering across the window like a film strip skipping frames. "No one can explain the choices that we make, sometimes, not even the ones that make them," Susan told Erinne. "It's natural to be a little jealous, but did you start hitting because you were jealous?" Erinne looked up at her. "You blame yourself for some reason, sweetheart. You're not in trouble. Your Daddy should have put a stop to you doing that a long time ago. He didn't teach you right from wrong, so that's more his fault than yours. I just want to know, was it jealousy that made you hit Greinne and Sorsche, honey?" Erinne started to shake and sob. "Daddy said jealousy was natural. He said that it was okay to be jealous and to hit because of it, but...." She was holding back on something. "Yes, baby?" Susan asked her softly. But Erinne didn't answer—just curled forward like she was trying to fold herself out of existence, her forehead pressing into Susan's collarbone. The silence stretched thin between them, taut as a wire about to snap. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—Erinne whispered, "But Daddy never hit me for being jealous." "You shouldn't be hit for being jealous," Susan whispered to clarify that that would never happen anyway. "There are gentler ways to teach right from wrong, child. Jealousy is an emotion. You can't help emotions. It's the actions that jealousy could cause that need to be understood so that you know you have choices in how you handle it. You know it's not really Sorsche or Greinne's fault you can't see your Mom, right?" Erinne's shoulders hitched—not a nod, not a shake, just the involuntary spasm of a body trying to contain something too large for it. Her fingers curled into Susan's shirtfront, the fabric twisting like a noose beneath her whitened knuckles. The overhead light caught the wet tracks on her cheeks, turning them to liquid silver. "I know... but knowing doesn't make the wanting stop," she choked out, her voice fraying at the edges like old rope. "No, no, it doesn't," Susan agreed with her. "What you need is counseling, sweetheart. No hitting, no yelling, just counseling. And when we get things sorted, that's what all you girls are going to get." Erinne hiccuped—a wet, childish sound—and Susan gently shifted her grip, one hand moving to stroke through the girl's braids, fingers catching on the snarls like they were tally marks of neglect. Outside, the crow returned to its perch on the parking lot lamp, something small and dark clutched in its beak. Suddenly, I couldn't help myself! I shrieked in delight. "Aoife peed!" It wasn't that she peed her pants sitting next to me, but I felt it on my leg. My leg knew it got wet! It was something. They had been prodding at me, trying to get me to feel something, and then it just happened. Little sissy peed, and I felt it! I was crying, laughing, and excited all at the same time. "She peed!" Aoife looked horrified—like I'd just announced she'd murdered someone—her face draining of color as she stared down at the darkening patch on my hospital gown where her dress had pressed against my thigh. Greinne's hands fluttered uselessly in the air like panicked birds before she grabbed Aoife's shoulders, yanking her back so hard the smaller girl's shoes squeaked against the linoleum. Sean had just come in, and I had to repeat it! "Aoife pee! Look!" I yanked the blanket back, showing the wet spot on the bed. "I'm not going to lose my legs! I CAN walk again! Aoife peed!" I was still crying, excited, and laughing all at the same time. The wet patch spread slowly across the stiff hospital sheets, its edges blurring like watercolor on cheap paper. Sean didn't react to the mess—his eyes locked on my face with an intensity that made my laughter stutter. His calloused thumb brushed the tear tracks on my cheeks, his touch lingering like he was memorizing the texture of my relief. Susan walked over, letting Erinne take a moment while she helped Aoife, knowing that having her failure declared like that might have hurt her, but I didn't notice at the time. I couldn't get over my own delight that I felt it. Sean's hands trembled—just once—before he pressed them flat against my shoulders, grounding me as if he feared I might float away with the sheer force of my relief. His breath hitched when I grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard to prove I could, my fingers leaving pale crescents in his weathered skin. "My leg has feeling, Papa!" The words tumbled out before I could stop them—too loud, too raw—and Sean's breath caught like I'd punched him. He blinked rapidly, his lashes clumped with moisture, and for a fractured second, I saw the soldier in him waver. Aoife whimpered, her wet dress clinging to trembling thighs, but Sean didn't turn—just kept staring at me like I'd spoken in tongues. I had now started to realize not everyone was excited. I saw Aoife trembling. I saw Erinne looking wary, and Greinne was looking down. Susan was trying to comfort my little sister. I finally understood. I had told everyone what Aoife had done. I looked down sadly. "Sorry," I muttered. Sean, however, kneeled down before me, his eyes serious. "No, baby," he murmured, "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong." His rough fingers brushed against my cheek—calloused but gentle, like sandpaper wrapped in velvet. "But I did. I told on Aoife, and made her feel scared and lonely. I'm her big sister. I shouldn't have told everyone!" Aoife gasped—a tiny, wounded sound—and burrowed into Greinne's side. Her wet dress clung to Greinne's sweater, transferring the dampness like a secret shared too late. The room smelled suddenly of salt and antiseptic, the sharp tang of urine mingling with hospital bleach. Sean exhaled—slow, deliberate—then reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Aoife's ear, his fingers brushing her damp cheek. "Little one," he murmured, his voice rough as gravel yet impossibly soft, "in this house, accidents are just weather. They come, they go. Nobody drowns here." Aoife sniffled, her small frame trembling like a leaf in a storm, but she didn't pull away when Sean's thumb traced the curve of her jaw—a gesture so tender it made Greinne's breath hitch. Behind them, Erinne stood frozen, her braids a tangled mess from Susan's embrace, her eyes darting between Sean and the door like she expected Daddy to burst through it any second. "No one's ever hit me for an accident before," Aoife whimpered. "But Daddy was my really daddy, and Mama was my really mama. Not like Cait that Daddy doesn't want or Sorsche that isn't Daddy's!" A hush settled over the room—the kind that comes after a scream in an empty house, when even the walls seem to recoil. Sean's fingers stilled on Aoife's cheek, his knuckles whitening against her soft skin. Greinne made a sound like a choked-back sob, her arms tightening around Aoife in a grip that was half-protection, half-restraint. Aoife leaned against Greinne. "Why is Cait excited that I peed though?" She seemed to have missed why it was important. Sean swallowed hard—his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in rough water—before crouching to meet Aoife’s gaze at eye level. "Because Cait’s nerves were damaged, pumpkin," he murmured, wiping Aoife’s damp cheek with the cuff of his flannel. "Feeling your accident means her body’s healing." His thumb traced the rim of Aoife’s ear, his touch featherlight. "But that doesn’t mean we shout about it like it’s a fireworks show, understand?" Aoife nodded. "So... she's better then?" The air in the room shifted—not like a storm passing, but like the earth tilting imperceptibly on its axis. Sean's shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out in increments as he exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "She's getting there, babygirl," he murmured, his thumb brushing Aoife's earlobe one last time before withdrawing. Erinne walked closer to me. "You were walking before. How come you thought you couldn't now?" She had tears in her eyes, not yet spilling. Something about the way she asked—the rawness in her voice—made me pause. My fingers curled tighter around Ms. Whiskers' limp body, pressing her button eyes into my palm until the plastic edges left tiny crescents in my skin. The pain was sharp and clean, a grounding counterpoint to the numbness still lingering below my waist. "Last time Daddy threw me, I landed bad. That was months ago, but my body grew back weird, and the doctor said I was getting more and more hurt every day, so they operated. Then I couldn't walk, but the doctor said I was already not going to walk. He said he hoped to save me so I could walk, but it looked too late." I sighed and looked down. Erinne's breath hitched—a wet, strangled sound—and her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for me but didn't dare. Greinne's lips parted, but no words came out; instead, her grip on Aoife tightened until the smaller girl squeaked in protest. "The doctors think that I'm starting to wet my pants on accident because of getting kicked like last month, too," I told Erinne at last, and then looked to the side. "Sean says I can wet my pants until I want to stop, and my body can control it, but if it doesn't happen, it's okay." Erinne's hands clenched around the bedrail—so tight the metal groaned—before she released it suddenly, as if burned. Her face twisted like she'd bitten into something sour, but her voice came out softer than I'd ever heard it: "You... you didn't tell Daddy about the kicking?" "You didn't know Daddy was the one that kicked me, for making puddles again?" I asked. Erinne's face went slack—that same stunned horror she'd worn when we found the neighbor's cat after Daddy's truck hit it. Her fingers fluttered near her mouth like she might vomit. The hospital gown rustled as she leaned forward—ever so slightly—as if drawn by some morbid gravity. Erinne smelled kind of earthy and sort of rottenish, but I tried not to say it. I didn't know why, and I didn't want to cause another scene. I'd already made a mistake with Aoife, and I didn't know what I was smelling from Erinne. Sean moved suddenly—a soldier's swift sidestep—placing himself between Erinne and the bed, his shoulders blocking the overhead light so his shadow swallowed her whole. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he spoke, the words measured like steps across a minefield: "Erinne. Look at me." When she didn't—her gaze fixed somewhere near my knees—he crouched until their faces were level, his knees popping with the effort. "Whatever you're thinking right now? That's his voice, not yours." Erinne jerked her head up. "How do you know what I'm even thinking?" Sean exhaled sharply—a sound like shrapnel scraping bone—but kept his voice low. "Because I've carried that weight too." His thumb brushed the scarred knuckles of her clenched fist, tracing the ridges like they were braille. "The moment you start believing you deserved it—that's when they win." "I never got hurt like them," she jerked her head back at Greinne, me, and ... Sorsche was still missing—still with the doctor. "I just...." The smell seemed to be getting stronger. I couldn't place it. It's not like I'd think Erinne would do anything that could cause a smell like.... My face, I felt it, contort in horror. No! Susan was breathing deeply, and she looked at Erinne. "Erinne, honey, did your Daddy ever... touch you?" "T... touch me? Like a hug?" she asked, but even I understood that Susan didn't mean that kind, even if I was a little confused at first about exactly what Susan was asking. Susan shook her head. "No... honey. No." Erinne frowned, and I saw her blood vessel in her head seem to twitch before she looked back, confused at Susan. "I was Daddy's. He wouldn't have touched me. But.... I...." She shivered. There was something on her lips, but she didn't say. Susan inhaled sharply through her nose—the scent of pennies and damp fabric thick enough to taste—and carefully reached for Erinne’s wrist, turning the girl’s palm upward. There were scratches on her arm. Not deep enough to cause her to bleed out, but definitely cuts that seemed too neat and purposefully made. The smell from Erinne was intensified, now, and nearly made me gag, but I still couldn't place it... that is, until Aoife stared at Erinne's butt. "Your Daddy never touched you?" Susan whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. "No. No one touched me," Erinne shook her head. "I did this by myself. When I felt I knew I did wrong. When I hit Greinne for no reason, when I pushed Sorsche, and when I... sometimes, I was told to hit Cait, Sorsche, even Greinne with the belt by daddy." I finally realized someone must have pooped their pants. I tried to feel under the blanket on my own diaper, but I knew it wasn't me. Sorsche wasn't in the room. Aoife had already peed he pants... so... that only left Erinne. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating—like wet wool pressed over my face. Sean's fingers twitched toward Erinne's wrist, then recoiled as if burned by the invisible heat radiating from her skin. The scratches on her arms weren't random; they formed deliberate patterns—crude crosses and jagged stars—etched into flesh like a child's desperate attempt at self-punishment. Susan went to hug her again, whispering. "We can fix this, baby," but as she hugged her, that's when she realized the thirteen-year-old girl had poop in her panties under her skirt. Erinne smelled like rotting fruit and iron, a sickeningly sweet decay undercut by the tang of blood—old wounds reopened by fingernails bitten to the quick. Aoife whimpered and pressed her face into Greinne’s sweater, small fingers clutching the fabric like a life raft. Sean moved—not toward Erinne, but positioning himself between her and the door, his body angled like he expected her to bolt any second. Susan’s hands froze mid-air, hovering an inch from Erinne’s shoulders. The girl stood rigid, her skirt stiff with dried filth, each breath hitching like she was counting seconds between lightning and thunder. The overhead light caught the sweat beading along her hairline, turning it to liquid gold against skin gone grayish-green. Aoife whimpered again, pressing her face deeper into Greinne’s sweater—a muffled, animal sound of distress. Sean shifted his weight subtly, blocking the door with his body as if anticipating Erinne might bolt through it like a spooked deer. His fingers flexed once—a soldier’s reflex—before settling into loose, open palms. "Easy," he murmured—not to Erinne, but to Susan, whose nostrils flared with each shallow breath. Erinne didn’t move. Her arms hung stiff at her sides, fingers curled inward like claws around imaginary switches. The cuts on her forearms wept tiny beads of rust-colored blood where fresh scratches overlapped old scars—topographical maps of self-loathing. Susan exhaled—slow, deliberate—then reached for Erinne’s wrist with the cautious precision of someone disarming a bomb. Aoife whimpered again, a sound like a kicked puppy, and Sean’s jaw flexed—once, twice—before he crouched to her eye level. "Look at me, little warrior," he murmured, thumb brushing her tear-streaked cheek. "You smelled it first. That makes you the bravest one here." His words were soft, but his eyes darted to Erinne’s skirt hem—the stiff, darkened fabric whispering secrets no child should know. Erinne’s breath hitched—wet and ragged—as Susan’s fingers grazed her wrist. The girl flinched, but didn’t pull away; her fingers twitched like she was counting invisible rosary beads. The scent intensified—coppery blood under spoiled milk—as Susan’s hand gently turned Erinne’s palm upward, revealing crescent-moon indentations where nails had bitten too deep. Aoife sniffled against Greinne’s sweater, her small body trembling like a plucked violin string. Sean kept his voice low, murmuring to her about bravery, but his eyes never left Erinne—watching, waiting, as if expecting her to shatter like a dropped icicle. The overhead light flickered, casting jagged shadows that made Erinne’s scars look like cracks in porcelain. Susan’s fingertips ghosted over Erinne’s wrist—so lightly it might have been an accident—but the girl jerked back as if branded, her heel catching on a loose floor tile. The motion sent a waft of something sour and metallic curling through the air, sharp enough to make Sean’s nostrils flare. Aoife buried her face deeper into Greinne’s chest, whimpering, "Smells like when Daddy left the meat out too long." Erinne’s breath came in short, panicked bursts, her chest rising and falling like a trapped bird’s. Her gaze darted to the door—calculating, desperate—but Sean had already shifted his weight, his boots planted wide like a man bracing against a gale. "Easy," he murmured, his voice rough yet impossibly gentle. "Nobody’s leaving this room until we’re all ready." Susan’s fingers trembled as she reached for Erinne’s elbow, her touch featherlight. "Sweetheart," she whispered, "when was the last time you changed your—" Her voice cracked, the unspoken word hanging thick in the air between them. Erinne’s face contorted—not in shame, but in something far worse: the hollow resignation of a child who’d long since stopped expecting kindness. Aoife’s small fingers dug into Greinne’s sleeve, her knuckles white as bone. "It’s okay," Greinne murmured into Aoife’s hair, but her gaze locked onto Erinne’s skirt—the way the fabric clung stiffly to her thighs, the crusted hemline whispering of days spent hiding in silence. Sean exhaled through his nose, the sound like a blade being sheathed, and stepped closer—not to restrain, but to shield Erinne from the door, from escape, from the cruel arithmetic of her own thoughts. Susan’s hands hovered, trembling, before she gently cupped Erinne’s elbows—not gripping, just offering anchor points. "Baby," she whispered, "you’re not in trouble." The words landed like a stone in still water, rippling through Erinne’s tense frame. For a heartbeat, the girl swayed, her knees buckling slightly as if the weight of those five syllables had cracked something loose inside her. Sean’s boot scuffed against the linoleum—deliberate noise to ground her—as he reached behind him without looking, fingers brushing Aoife’s shoulder. "Breathe," he murmured, and it wasn’t clear who he was talking to. Erinne’s nostrils flared, her breath hitching wetly as she stared at Susan’s collarbone like it held some sacred text. The smell—thick and cloying—seemed to pulse between them, a living thing. Susan’s thumbs traced slow circles on Erinne’s elbows, her touch featherlight. "You’re safe here," she said, and this time the words landed differently—not comfort, but fact. Erinne shuddered, her knees buckling slightly, and for a heartbeat, her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for impact. Then, with a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, she slumped forward, her forehead thumping against Susan’s sternum. I could only shiver. I had never known Erinne to potty her pants, but now Susan asked her when she changed. That was weird, like Susan expected she had been wearing poopy panties for a while, then, maybe before she came in, and we only started to smell it at the last. I shivered. "I'm going to get this child cleaned up," Susan told the room. "Sean, ask the nurse for diapers. I'll be in the bathroom with poor Erinne." Sean nodded. Just like with me, there was no judgment. No yelling at her. No hitting. Susan just tried to help her, and I think Sean only hesitated because Erinne was thirteen and not nine like I was.

Chapter Thirteen Stress and Incontinence Are Not Punishments, Cait Something seemed to whisper around me, but I couldn’t yet see anything but darkness. I could only feel... nothing. There were sounds, though. Smells, there was a clear almost absence of anything my nose could pick up on. Only the sounds. It started as very faint murmurs in an unknown world sort of way. There were some shuffling, like people being near, but the world was dark. I started to feel. My eyes were heavy. I was warm. I didn’t know if I was sitting, lying down, or even standing. It was like my mind was here, but where was my body? It was warm. I could hear something else. There was a beeping. It was also muffled and maybe in the distance. It beeped every maybe few seconds. I wanted to see through the darkness. I tried. I pushed with facial muscles that I normally didn’t notice. They didn’t respond. My eyes felt as though they had some kind of sealing stuff in them, keeping them closed. My mouth felt like it was sucking on a cotton ball or something. It was dry. It was gaggingly stuffed with a feeling that seemed like trying to stuff Dandelion fluff down your throat. I pulled with my facial muscles again, but still, I could only see darkness. I had no idea if I had slipped my tongue out of my mouth, trying to lick anything that would relieve the cotton or fluffy feeling in my throat, but no moisture could be found. “Please,” I thought I heard a faint sound within myself. Not like something voice, but rather a pathetic voice trying to find a make to make my word, make my mouth work, let me tell the world that I was here. I struggled against the darkness. A chest cavity tightening sensation seemed to clutch around my heart as i realized I couldn’t move, nor could I make a sound, and no one would know I was aware. Slowly the quiet returned. The smells disappeared. The sensations in my throat felt forgotten, and I was forgotten again. I felt the world around me a second time, my eyes still closed and something like glue seemed to keep them closed. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something on my eyes for sure, that kept them tight closed, and while the upper eyelid trying to go up, only pulled the lower lid up—and the lower lid trying to pull down, only also pulled. The sounds were a little closer now as my ears started to tune into the living. Someone walked by, slowly, their steps squeaking a bit as though they tried to walk quietly so the click-clack could not be heard, but still, they squeaked. I heard murmuring. The smell of alcohol, chlorine cleanliness, and latex gloves were in the air. I felt a little shiver that shook my body from shoulders to knees, but I couldn’t tell if I had actually physically shuddered. “She’s been in here all night,” one nurse told someone. Who were they talking about? Me? “Her family has been asking about her for the last couple of hours. What do I tell them?” another voice asked. “Tell them that she can’t be moved until she wakes up. They’ll just have to be patient.” What if they were talking about me? I tried to pull my eyes apart with the muscles of my face. I willed an arm to move, to try to get some fingers to help pull it apart. Neither arm nor face seemed to respond. I wanted to cry. What if I couldn’t get myself up? What if this is what being dead is like? You know, but you can’t do nothing? I felt my mind frantically searching for some way to let them know I was awake, but with only thought and no muscle control, it had nothing. “I’ll go tell the McKinleys that she’s going to need more time.” “I can’t believe someone would do that to their own kid,” I heard another voice trailed off as they walked away. McKinley! I knew that name, didn’t I? They WERE talking about ME. How can I let them know I was here, and that I could hear them? I tried to clench my hands. If I could just make a fist or something! I couldn’t feel my fingers move. The bed was too soft and too paralyzing. I wanted to jump up off of it, to accuse it of laying some kind of magic on me, that tried to keep me... like Snow White. I would not sleep forever! No boy was going to kiss me! Gross. More importantly, though, I had to get up, but still my body lay there, no matter how much I wanted to move. I struggled inwardly, in thought only. The murmuring slowly faded away. The nurse’s squeaking footsteps trailed off. Then, silence and emptiness. I felt myself again, becoming aware of people around me, only this time, there was a quietness in the air. There was still a beeping machine, only this time, it felt closer to my ears, near my head. I could hear familiar voices now, too. “The doctors say she woke up briefly for a moment while in the recovery room.” The normally rough gravel voice, like a low tiger murmur, was gone from Sean’s voice. I still knew that tone. He was in the room now. “They say she should be waking soon.” I heard a sniffle nearby. “I knew that Dan,” who was Daddy, “...had hurt her worse than he thought the last time he was really mad at her.” That was Mama! Fuzzy faces slowly came into view as I felt my eyes slowly push apart. The muscles seemed stronger than the bond that had held them closed before. I was under a blanket that felt comfortable, and my hand moved from beneath, and I checked near my crotch. It felt dry. It was poofy there. Maybe I still had a diaper on? I think they said something about putting one on me because I couldn’t move. “She’s awake,” I heard the kind whisper of the woman who had been helping me since I left our farm to give both Mama and Daddy a break from me. Red-headed, older Susan had wanted me to wear thicker panties, to put pads in my panties, and she was there every time I peed my pants before I.... I was starting to see clearly, a blue curtain pulled around my bed area. I could see Sean, big, bear-like with a gentle smile on his face, and he was holding... Ms. Whiskers! I reached up at him and the stuffed cat they had gotten me before all of this. He was already starting to lean down before I even reached up, and he was handing me my toy. “Glad to see you awake, baby.” Susan looked from Mama to me, and she smiled. She seemed to have let her hair get a little stringy. Her eyes were watery, and she looked like she could barely keep her eyes open. I wondered how she was able to stay standing. Her face felt... discolored somehow, though I wasn’t really sure that was a real thing. You know the saying... “looking pale?” “How are we feeling, pet?” Susan asked her voice even a bit too quiet for her. Her green eyes were barely able to be seen with as close to being closed her eyes were. I tried to shift in bed, but I found only my arms were moving. “Don’t try to move, yet,” Sean put a hand down on the blanket where my stomach was. “The doctor doesn’t want you trying to move until it’s safe.” “Okay,” I sighed. I only tried to move so I could see if I could answer Susan. “I can’t move,” I told Susan at last. “And, I think I peed.” Susan smiled and she gestured to Mama. “We drove all night to get here.” I nodded. “But it took us two days to go just here?” I didn’t know how long I’d been sleeping or trying to wake. “They had complications, baby,” Sean whispered. “It’s been three days since I last saw you go in.” “But I’m better now, right?” “The doctor doesn’t know,” Sean’s tiger gravel-like low roar was back in his throat. “He says right now, only time will tell.” “How will I get changed?” I asked. “I peed my pants.” I sniffled and suddenly felt an enormous feeling of dread creep upon me, that old snake coiling a little tighter around my chest. “The nurse can change you, honey. They know how to do it carefully,” Sean told me. “I’ll go get one.” “No,” I whimpered like I was two or something. “No, I want you to stay. I can wear a wet diaper a little longer.” Sean sighed, and he reached down to hold my hand. “I know this is scary,” his voice low but tiger gravel-like, grounding, like the smell of motor oil, hay, and animals. This was the bear that had been at my side for the last few days, keeping away the scary, and I needed him like a turtle needs its shell. I learned a while back that its shell isn’t a separate home, but is actually part of its bones or something. I was so surprised, but yeah, I needed Sean, like I now really understood that a turtle needed its shell! “I’m still allowed to pee my pants..., on purpose?” I asked Sean. “Yes, baby. Right now, you have no choice, actually. You have to do it, honey. The doctor doesn’t want you walking until you’ve had some time to heal, and so he can see that the bones will properly support each other.” “Cait?” Mama came a little closer. “Honey? I’m here.” I looked over at the woman who would scold me for peeing in the chair, that would make me sit at the table struggling with reading and not letting me up so I could go pee anywhere but the floor, and I closed my eyes, tears spilling around my face. I... I didn’t love her anymore. Not as much as I used to. Susan showed me that I could pee my pants and not get yelled at, while Mama; SHE, caused me to wet my pants, and then yelled. I ... I didn’t love her anymore. Sean squeezed my fingers very gently. He leaned down all the way to whisper in my ear. "You're safe. You're loved. That's all that matters." It’s like he understood. His breath smelled like coffee and peanuts, something he must have eaten while sitting by my bed all night, and I heard the crackle of paper wrappers somewhere nearby. I looked toward Sean’s chair and saw a crumpled wrapper on the seat, like he’d been eating a candy bar while waiting for me to wake up. I was wrong, though, about not loving Mama anymore. I felt something different, something not like hate nor even absence of love, but it was confusing. Sean said I was safe, and I was loved, and those words enveloped me. They told me that my feelings about Mama did definitely change, but what I felt wasn't quite what I knew how to say. Mama just didn't feel safe anymore. I didn’t say anything to Mama right, then. What could I say? I didn’t trust her? I didn’t feel safe around her? Those were not things that I wanted to voice right now. I didn’t want to feel these things. Erinne told me that Maire wasn’t really my mom; But Maire had been the only Mama I had known since I moved in with Daddy when before I could really remember. I hated that I couldn’t feel safe with her—that I couldn’t feel like I could trust her anymore. I hated that when I said these things... if I ever would, that I knew they’d make Mama cry. But it was a cold hard fact. Fact doesn’t care about feelings. I turned my head from Mama. What else could I do? I peed my pants, and she was there. I got a bad reading mark, and she was there. I got Greinne in trouble, or I somehow started a fight at school, and there Mama was. But when I cried? Nope. It was Greinne. When I needed truth? Nope. It was Erinne. When I was scared? Nope. Sorsche! Mama was never there when I needed her. “Sean?” I whispered up at him. “Make the nurse let you stay when she changes my diaper? Mama can go. But you? You stay? Please?” Mama sobbed. I think Mama knew things were different now. “I’m really wet, and I... can I... Can I call you papa? Because... because... You are my papa.” He held my hand tenderly. “I’ll let the nurse know what you want, honey,” he had that low bear growl that I really loved when he spoke. I heard Mama sniffle again. Her shadow shifted away from the curtained-off area as she whispered, "I'll step outside." The curtain rustled softly like old tissue paper being crumpled, and her footsteps padded away—a sound like wet dishes being stacked. Relief washed through me cold and sharp as river water, prickling my skin under the hospital gown. The sterile smell intensified suddenly, burned my nostrils with bleach and something underneath—metallic blood?—alongside Sean’s comforting scent of peanuts and coffee grounds. Susan leaned closer, her bony hand resting on my unmoving thigh. Her touch felt feather-light but unnatural against the numb heaviness below my waist. "You rest, Cait. We aren’t going anywhere." Her voice scratched thin as chalk. I focused on Sean’s face: the crow’s feet by his eyes, the stubble like sandpaper on his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in days. The realization gnawed at me—he’d been here, sleepless, while I drifted in that suffocating dark. Shame curdled in my belly. Three days of wet diapers changed by strangers? Three days of him waiting? My cheeks flushed hot. The beeping monitor quickened—thump-thump, thump-thump—a frantic bird trapped against glass. A nurse slipped through the curtain, her sneakers silent on the linoleum. Young, with freckles dusting her nose like cinnamon. "Time for a change, sweetheart," she chirped, pulling gloves on with a snap. The scent of clean plastic assaulted my senses. I shivered—not cold, but exposed. Sean shifted taller, blocking Mama’s empty space. "She wants me to stay," he rumbled. The nurse paused, glanced between us, then nodded. "Alright, Dad. Just help keep her still." Dad. The word hung warm in the air. Sean’s thumb traced circles on my palm—rough, calloused skin against my limp fingers—as the nurse lifted the blanket. I smiled up at him while the nurse worked on the dirty parts of my body. I wish I could have stopped the strangers from changing my pants. I moved my hand up an arm, and suddenly realized there was a thin plastic line-like tube there, that was actually going down into it, near my hand. I looked for the source, a liquid thingy to put water, medicine, and who knows what else into my body. "I'm sure they'll take that thing off you as soon as they can, baby," Sean smiled at me. No. Dad smiled at me. Not Daddy, but Dad. Dad? Dad was strong, and he cared, and he was protective of everything about me, from my body, my feelings, and everything. He was Dad. He wouldn't let anyone hurt me again. He said I was allowed to pee my pants as long as I wanted, or as long as my body needed to. He said it was only salt water. He said that love doesn't go away, but salt water does. He was my rock. Maybe Susan actually said some of that, too. Susan was just as important to me as Sean. She was there when I needed her, when Sean had to work, and she.... She rescued my other sisters so Daddy couldn't hurt Sorsche no more. I shivered, though. I didn't know if Mama really loved Greinne or Erinne, not like she loved Sorsche and Aoife. The nurse's fingers moved under the blanket near my thighs. The plastic rustle of the diaper being unfastened was loud in the quiet room. Cool air hit my skin—a stark shock against the warmth trapped beneath the covers—and I flinched, a full-body tremor that made the IV line tug sharply at the back of my hand. "Easy now," the nurse murmured, her voice soft as cotton balls. "Just cleaning you up." The antiseptic wipe was cold, wet, and smelled aggressively clean, like lemons fighting bleach. I squeezed Sean's hand harder, my knuckles white. He didn't flinch, just kept rubbing my thumb with his own. "For now," Sean told me to keep my mind on other things. "Your Mama and your sister are going to stay with a friend. They will all be safe until we figure things out. Susan told your Mama that we'd fight for you, and for anyone else that needed protection." I looked up at Sean. At Dad, heart thumping. "Your Mama had already agreed before you woke that Susan and I should keep you. She said that you'd probably known more love in the last few days with us than with her and Dan since you came to stay with them. She's sorry, you know." The nurse gently lifted my hips—a strange floating sensation, like being untethered—as she slid the soiled diaper out from under me. The cold, wet chill lingered where my skin had pressed against it. I focused on Sean's face—the stubble, the exhaustion, the unwavering warmth in his eyes. "Does she mean it?" My voice came out thin, stripped raw. "I don't know," Sean was honest with me. "But what I do know, is that she has agreed that you should stay with Susan and me rather than her going forward. She says you'd known nothing from her... but frustration since you'd been at their place." The nurse slid the clean diaper underneath me. The crinkling sound echoed against the curtain as she fastened the tapes—too tight at first, then loosened when I winced. The fresh padding felt stiff and alien against my skin, like cardboard wrapped in plastic. Cool gel beads shifted inside as I breathed. I stared at the ceiling tiles—speckled white squares with tiny holes like constellations. All the while Sean kept hold of my hand. His thumb resumed its slow circles. I could hear Susan breathing softly near the foot of the bed, a steady rhythm beneath the monitor's beeping. "I only wish I had known things were as bad as they were," Susan whispered into the quiet as the nurse packed up to leave us. "I knew that Dan wasn't a good person, but nothing would have prepared me for what he put you through, Cait. Nothing would have prepared me for what he put all of you through, but his own daughter!" She shook a bit. "But no more, baby. Whatever he said you got hit for or yelled at for, unless it's really something that we can't let you do..., those rules are no longer rules nor things you will ever be yelled at for again, honey." Susan walked to the other side of me, and she crouched down and gently rubbed a finger along my other arm that Sean wasn’t already touching. Sean squeezed my fingers softly. "Susan is right, baby. We're going to protect you." "I get bad grades at school," I said softly. "I'm sure a violent house doesn't help that," Sean whispered back to me. "Grades are important, but they are not that important. We’ll figure it out, sweet pea.” His words settled over me like a warm blanket. The antiseptic smell was fading, replaced by the earthy scent of Sean’s worn flannel shirt—hay and motor oil and something uniquely him. Below my waist, the new diaper felt less alien now, the crinkling softer as I shifted slightly. Still no sensation in my legs, just a deep, hollow numbness. Fear prickled under my skin again. What if I never walked? What if— I reached for Sean, wanting his shirt, his essence, his sureness in things. I didn't like the feelings I was having. I needed his rock, and I knew where to find it. I motioned, sort of like a toddler, I suppose, as I made grabbies at his shirt, not just him, but his shirt he had on at that moment. When he got close, I grabbed the fabric of the tail ends, and I held them to my face. "Shall I take my shirt off for you, then, Cait?" he asked, a bemused smile on his face. I looked down. I knew he probably didn't have another shirt here. I couldn't have his shirt. I knew I couldn't, only-- "You got it," Sean didn’t seem to need me to say it. He removed his shirt and placed it around my shoulders, carefully. The flannel draped me instantly—soft, worn fabric smelling deeply of hay, coffee, and the faint tang of his sweat. I buried my nose in it, inhaling hard. The panic loosened its grip, coil by coil. Below, the numbness remained, a terrifying void where movement should be. Susan pulled a chair closer, scraping the linoleum. Her fingers brushed my forehead, cool and dry. "Cait," she murmured, her voice raspy. "The doctors said nerves heal slowly. Like... waking up after a deep freeze." She traced the IV line taped to my arm, her touch feather-light. "You remember that winter in up in Chicago? When the harbor iced over?" I nodded weakly into Sean's shirt. "Thaw took weeks. Bits cracking, shifting. Awkward. Slow. But the water remembered how to move." She squeezed my shoulder. "Your legs will remember too." That was about three years before, I think. I remembered because there was so much snow! That was the first time Mama introduced us to her “host” sister. I didn’t know what “host” sister meant, and still don’t. She’s not exactly her sister, but then I don’t know who I am really even related to in my own family, so it doesn’t matter. A sister is a sister, right? "What about wearing diapers?" I asked her the foreboding question that I most worried about. I didn't want to wear diapers to school, but I hated everyone watching me pee my pants, too. Sean shifted, his muscles tensing beneath his shirtless shoulders. "We'll figure it out together," he promised. His voice felt like gravel under bare feet—solid, reassuring. "If doctors say you need them, then you wear them. No shame in healing." He tucked the flannel tighter around my chin. The scent of him—motor oil, hay, stale peanuts—was a fortress against the sterile bleach biting my nose. “Besides,” he said after a few minutes. “Summer’s just started. Let’s see if you don’t get better over the summer before we start worrying about what we can’t foresee?” I sighed. “Yeah. Okay.” Sean’s shirt muffled my voice, smelling like home—saltwater, engine grease, the faint sweetness of peanut butter cups he’d snuck earlier. It drowned out the hospital stink. I shifted my hips slightly. Nothing. Just a deep, hollow ache below my waist. Like my legs were ghosts. The diaper felt thick and awkward, the plastic crinkling softly whenever I breathed. Time started to make no sense, and I was just here, now. There was no sense of tomorrow at the moment. I didn't even keep track of the meals. The only thing that mattered, was that Sean, Dad, and Susan, now Mom, came to check on me. Sean still had to work, but Susan was at my side for every minute that Sean wasn't. They took turns sleeping in my room. The nurses insisted the staff had to change me, and Sean and Susan were not to do it until the doctor said. Then, five days, later, shortly after lunch, Sean, Susan, and the doctor were standing around my bed. "It's time we checked your bones again to make sure they healed right," he told me. "After we confirm that they are where they are supposed to be, then we can start some light movement exercises, and with luck, you can go home on Monday." I nodded. My stomach twisted. Going home meant Susan and Sean's cozy cottage with the crooked fence where I could smell the mountains. Not Mama's tense house with Daddy's shouting. But going home also meant facing something new: what if I couldn't walk? What if I stayed trapped in this numb body? The diaper crinkled under the thin hospital blanket as I shifted, a sound that made my cheeks burn. Sean squeezed my hand, his thumb rough against my skin. "Home will be good,” Sean whispered in his low roaring sort of way. “Susie and I, we will make sure you have what you need, and you won’t need to climb stairs until your legs are ready. Just like we can be patient for your body to learn to pee where and when it should, we can be patient with your legs, too, baby.” Wait! Sean did promise me we were going to set up a place where I can do art. I had nearly forgotten about that since being here. "So..., when I go home, I can't do my art?" I asked. Sean and Susan looked at each other, and then Sean smiled. "We'll figure it out, honey. We want you to do things you like to do while you recover. It will help to give you hope, too." The doctor cleared his throat. "For now, let's focus on today. We'll take you down to imaging shortly." His tone was brisk, professional, but I caught the flicker of something else—hope? Concern?—in his eyes before he turned away. A chill settled in my chest despite Sean’s warm hand holding mine. Below the blanket, the diaper felt suddenly heavier, a thick, unwelcome reminder of everything I couldn’t control. I sniffled and a heavy sadness lunged into my throat. I couldn't even tell them, I was so disgusting! I just pooped my pants! I... I'm not a baby! Why is this happening? Sean tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Cait?" His voice was soft, probing. "You okay, sweetheart?" I shook my head, my throat choking on tears, and my hands hitting the bed on each side of me as I continued to feel it... the pooping wasn't finished. It was just getting started, and I had to sit there, and let it happen! I burned in embarrassment. Sean leaned down, his forehead almost touching mine. "Shh," he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek. "It's okay. Just let it happen." His hand covered mine, squeezing gently. Below, the mess pushed out, hot and unavoidable, filling the diaper with a thick, sickening pressure. The scent tore into the atmosphere—sharp, sour, and impossibly intimate—mixing with the antiseptic hospital air. I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut. Suddenly, I was full-on crying as the last of it softly pressed itself in there, pushing the billowing mass around my butt, and I think some of it came up towards the front from between my legs. It was so gross. And all I could do was cry! Sean didn’t flinch. He kept his hand tight around mine, his thumb rubbing circles into my palm. "It’s just your body healing, honey," he murmured, his voice low and steady as bedrock. "Nothing wrong with that." His other hand brushed the hair from my damp forehead. The flannel shirt he’d given me—still draped over my shoulders—smelled fiercely of him: hay, salt, coffee grounds. It anchored me against the shame threatening to swallow me whole. Susan was on the call button, as if she was sending a frantic S.O.S. signal to the nurses. "Come on!" she hoarsely whispered under her breath as she did this for the fourth time in probably less than two minutes. Susan pulled her lips tight as though it was a struggle to not say anything, as a harassed looking young nurse ran into the room. Fumbling with a clipboard that fell to the ground, she looked around at us as though trying to decide what to do. That’s when Sean, in a cool, collected, kind gesture, reached down to where she was already gathering up her dropped pen and notes. “It’s Cait,” he whispered as low as a tiger could growl. “She’s upset and a mess. Can we get a diaper change?” Nerves seeming to be on fire, the young nurse nodded feverently as she started towards the cabinets under the television where they kept the diapers for me. "I'll need everyone to step outside," she said, pulling the disposable pad out. Susan lingered, her eyes fixed on me. "I'm her—" "Outside," the nurse repeated, sharper now, snapping fresh gloves onto her hands. The plastic sounded like gunshots in the cramped space. Sean squeezed my shoulder once—a silent promise—before guiding Susan gently toward the curtain. Their footsteps retreated, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the nurse's quick, efficient movements. Alone with her, I stared at the ceiling tiles. Each speckle blurred into the next as tears welled. The odor hung thick now—a sickly-sweet rot beneath the sterile bleach—making my stomach churn. The nurse didn’t comment. Her fingers were brisk but not unkind as she unfolded the clean diaper, plastic crinkling like dry leaves. Cool antiseptic wipes swept over my skin, each pass leaving a trail of icy numbness that matched the void in my legs. I flinched when she lifted my hips; the sensation of dead weight being hauled upward was grotesque, unnatural. Below my waist felt like sculpted clay—heavy, useless, detached. The nurse paused mid-motion, her freckled face softening. "You’re trembling," she observed, her voice unexpectedly gentle. "Does this hurt?" Her gloved hand hovered near my hipbone. "No," I choked out. "Just...." But I couldn’t tell her. I was ashamed, scared, and sad that I had to do this, and wait for someone to clean it. I couldn’t even help, and it wasn’t even Sean or Susan helping me. I didn’t like that she had to do it. She nodded, understanding flickering in her eyes. "Nothing I haven't seen before," she said matter-of-factly, sliding the soiled diaper away with practiced ease. The relief was immediate but fleeting, replaced by the slap of cold air and the clinical scent of cleansing foam she sprayed onto a fresh wipe. Her touch was efficient—not rough, not tender—just thorough as she cleaned the mess. Each swipe felt like a violation, exposing skin I couldn’t even feel. I focused on Sean’s flannel shirt bunched in my fists, inhaling deeply: coffee grounds, engine oil, stale peanuts. The smell rose thick against the stench clinging to the air. As she positioned the clean diaper, its plastic rustling like cellophane, I noticed her gaze lingering on my motionless legs. A tiny frown creased her brow. "Doctor Henderson mentioned nerve conduction studies tomorrow," she offered casually, taping the sides snugly. "He’s optimistic." Her words hung there—a fragile raft in an ocean of uncertainty. Optimistic. Did that mean walking? Or just… feeling? Suddenly, a violent tremor surged through my hips—unbidden, uncontrolled—making my body jerk sideways against the mattress. The IV line tore painfully at my hand. "Whoa, easy!" The nurse gripped my shoulder, her fingers pressing hard. Panting, I stared at the ceiling, heartbeat thundering in my ears. Movement. Actual fucking movement. But not mine. Like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. Below, the numbness swallowed the sensation instantly, leaving only phantom echoes. The door hissed open—not Susan or Sean, but a gaunt woman in scrubs pushing a squeaking cart stacked with vials. "Blood draw," she announced, her eyes avoiding mine. The freckled nurse stepped back, wiping her gloved hands on a towel. "Perfect timing. She's cleaned up." The gaunt woman nodded, snapping a tourniquet around my upper arm. The rubber bit deep. I watched her cold fingers palpate my vein—blue, fragile beneath translucent skin—then the needle's sharp sting. Dark blood snaked into the tube. Sean’s shirt muffled my gasp. Below, the tremor faded into nothingness again. Had it even happened? The nurse caught my gaze. "Spasms are normal," she murmured, gathering soiled linens. "Nerves misfiring as they wake up." Hope? Or just biology? I clung to Sean’s scent as the phlebotomist filled vial after vial—click, click, click—like a macabre metronome. Outside the curtain, Sean’s low growl tangled with Susan’s anxious whisper. "...can’t just leave her alone after—" "Protocol," a clipped voice answered—Doctor Henderson? Footsteps approached. The curtain whipped aside. Doctor Henderson stood there, stethoscope dangling, eyes scanning the room: the blood vials, the fresh diaper’s edge peeking under my blanket, my knuckles white around flannel. "Miss Burke," he addressed the freckled nurse. "Status?" "She's cleaned up, and the bloodwork nurse, Ms. Nelson just took her blood." Dr. Henderson nodded sharply, his gaze shifting to me. "Cait, we're moving up your scan. Now." He glanced at Sean and Susan hovering anxiously beyond the curtain. "Family stays here." Before protests could form, he gestured to Freckles—Miss Burke—who swiftly unlocked my bed's wheels. The sudden lurch as she pushed me forward sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. Sean’s flannel slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my waist as I gripped the bed rails. The hallway lights stung my eyes—overhead fluorescents streaking past like comets. Each bump jolted my hips, sending dull aches through the numbness. Why were they moving things up so fast? Why couldn’t Sean and Susan come with? What was happening. I clutched Ms. Whiskers in my lap, shivering. They were moving too fast, and I didn’t feel like they had explained why. Dad, Sean, should at least know why? They didn’t even let him say anything though. What was wrong? As Nurse Burke pushed me down the corridor, the sterile hallway air bit at my exposed shoulders where Sean’s flannel had slipped. The wheels of my bed hummed against polished floors, each slight bump jolting my hips—a dull, distant ache beneath the numbness. Overhead lights blurred into streaks. I caught fragments of passing conversations: "...neuro consult..." "...possible compromise..." My breath hitched. Compromise? Did that mean my legs? My spine? Doctor Henderson walked briskly beside Nurse Burke, his brow furrowed as he scanned a tablet. "I need you to relax," Mr. Henderson said in a calm voice, though his eyes betrayed him. I saw it. They looked... worried. They looked.... I could see the bunched-up lines above his nose. I could see the tension in the cheeks just under his eyes. I could see his mouth straight and tight. He was thinking hard about SOMETHING. Ms. Burke stopped pushing my bed as we neared the imaging suite—a heavy door marked with radiation warnings. My fingers dug into the bed rail, knuckles bone-white. Below, the clean diaper felt stiff and alien against my skin, its plastic rustling faintly with each jolt. Doctor Henderson leaned close, his aftershave sharp against the antiseptic air. "Cait," he murmured, low enough that Nurse Burke pretended not to hear as she adjusted my IV pole. "Your blood pressure spiked dangerously high during the incident. We can't risk delaying the scan." "What's that mean?" I asked. Doctor Henderson’s jaw tightened. "It means your body reacted strongly—too strongly—to stress. Like pressing down hard on a cracked bone." He glanced at the imaging room door as it hissed open. Inside, the CT scanner loomed—a sleek white ring like a giant, unblinking eye. Cold air prickled my skin. "We need to see if that reaction caused any new damage. Or," he added quietly, "if it’s masking something else." "Um.... would it mean anything if I said I peed three times by really accident, instead of fake accident before Sean and Susan took me here? I... I was scared to tell them those were fake accidents, mostly, but I had three real ones just before? Would that mean something about the pressure or the mask or something you said?" I was confused, but wondered maybe that's what it hid. Maybe I was getting worse peeing trouble. Doctor Henderson paused, his pen hovering above his clipboard. His eyes sharpened—clinical curiosity mixed with something softer. "That's... actually significant, Cait." He nodded slowly. "Incontinence worsening before acute stress suggests autonomic instability. Your nervous system wasn't just reacting—it was already frayed." He gestured toward the scanner. "This might show why." "At home, before Sean and Susan, my real daddy, he expected me not to pee my pants, but then he didn't hit when it was an accident, so I faked accidents because I didn't know when I could go bathroom." I shivered and wasn't sure if I sounded like a baby, but I felt like he said something, though I didn't really get it, I thought it meant the really real accident might be telling me something bad. "Sean said it okay to pee my pants on purpose, though, because.... I think he knew I did it on purpose sometimes before I even told him it was on purpose." Doctor Henderson's expression shifted—the clinical detachment momentarily replaced by weary understanding. "Ah," he breathed out softly. "That changes the picture." He made a quick note on his tablet, his pen tapping rapidly. "Voluntary incontinence preceding autonomic distress..." He trailed off, then met my eyes squarely. "It suggests your nerves were already signalling distress—like frayed wires sparking before a fire. That spike wasn't just panic; it was your body screaming." He gestured sharply toward the scanner's gaping maw. Nurse Burke resumed pushing my bed forward, the wheels clicking over metal floor seams. Each jolt vibrated up through my spine, a hollow echo in the numbness below. "Does that mean, I can still heal on time, and that it just because I was bad because I peed on purpose before?" I whispered, scared I did this because I was bad like Daddy always said. Doctor Henderson’s expression softened, creasing around his eyes. "No, honey. This isn’t about being ‘bad.’ Your nerves were screaming long before you came here." He placed a gentle hand on my arm as Nurse Burke locked the bed into place beneath the scanner’s arch. The machine hummed to life, a low thrum vibrating through the mattress. I clutched Sean’s flannel tighter, burying my nose in its comforting roughness—hay and sweat battling the sterile bite of ozone. Below my waist, the diaper’s plastic pressed cold against my skin, a reminder of the body I couldn’t command. "I sorry for peeing pants on purpose for when the nurses changed me." I felt the shame in my face, causing it to burn. "Honey, that wasn't even you. You do understand, you couldn't do otherwise in the condition you were in since your stay in the hospital, don't you?" I shrugged. "I ... Maybe I could asked to carry to the bathroom? I didn't. I just peed on purpose." Doctor Henderson shook his head gently. "That's trauma talking, Cait." His hand remained steady on my arm. "Nerves don't punish. They break." He nodded toward Nurse Burke, who swiftly began securing straps around my hips and legs—soft restraints to hold me motionless. The pressure felt oppressive, like burial straps. Below my waist, sensation remained a hollow echo. "Caitlin, we need to get some tests done, and these are going to be very stressful tests, things that might scare you, so we are going to have to put you out again. It's not for operations, it's so that you stay relaxed while we are checking things over. Understand?" I nodded numbly. The anesthesia mask descended, its rubber edges sealing against my face with sickening finality. Cold gas flooded my nostrils—chemical sweetness like rotten fruit. I fought panic, clawing mentally at Sean’s flannel scent trapped beneath the sterile assault. Below, my legs existed only as dead weight strapped to the table. Then nothingness swallowed me whole.

This is a rather long chapter, kind of wordy, I apologize. I am trying Grammarly to try to clean up the writing, but it seems to want me to put more descriptions in, and that's making it a little longer. I only have the free version, so it's not going to catch everything, and some things that it's catching, because of the feel of the story, I did choose to ignore a few suggestions for the chapter. I hope this does make the chapter a little more interesting to read. Some feedback would be helpful. But hopefully, Grammarly is helping a little bit? Chapter Twelve Admitted Susan disappeared upstairs, footsteps muffled on the wooden treads. Sean guided me towards the mudroom with a hand warm against my shoulder blade. He opened the weathered door onto a bitter gust; mid-afternoon light brightened the muddy yard. Rusty hinges groaned as he opened the passenger door of his battered white-cream two-door with heavy, thick tires. Bowing the seat forward out of the way, he moved aside for me. "In you go," he said softly, helping me through the small opening. It was easy for me to get in, but it would have been hard for someone his size. I sat on the red-brown vinyl seat, right next to the spot where I had peed the day before. The stain was still there, making me feel ashamed. Cold seeped through the thin sweatpants instantly. He leaned in, buckling the seatbelt across my lap with surprising tenderness, his calloused fingers brushing my forearm. The metal clasp clicked loudly in the sudden quiet. His expression was unreadable – a mix of worry and that terrifying kindness – as he shut the door with a solid thunk, sealing me inside. Outside, the wind whipped across the empty fields, whistling around the metal wheeled barrier's corners. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, watching Sean stride purposefully towards the barn, his boots squelching in the mud. He vanished inside the dark doorway. I watched between the house where Susan was expected and the barn where Sean had just gone in, wondering why they were acting so... weird. I was stupid. Mama knew it, Daddy knew it, Erinne, my eldest sister, knew it, and even my teacher at school knew, though she did try to help me see things I could do, too. But Sean and Susan didn't act like I was. They talked to me like I understood things on their level. They got me art stuff the night before, and Sean promised to make me a place to use it, permanent, somewhere downstairs where I'd be seen doing it. I sniffled. And... I was lying to them. My breath fogged the window, blurring the barn door. Sean hadn't come back out. Something was wrong – or maybe I was just being stupid again? That awful lump formed in my throat. The barn wasn't just quiet; it felt still. Like when Daddy told me to sit in my room after I broke Mama's vase. Waiting. My fingers clenched on the cold vinyl seat edge. The wind whistled louder, a sharp, lonely sound bouncing off the nearby metal shed. I shivered in a chill of my own making, for it was only a few weeks before summer. I was in the car, protected from the wind, but still, the coldness settled in my bones as I watched. I was lying, I knew I was lying, and I had started to ask if they knew, but Sean said we'd talk about it later. He cut me off from telling them the truth. Why? Susan appeared at the front door, carrying a small bag with her besides her usual brown purse for her pocketbook. Her red hair flowed down the sides of her face, and her green eyes glanced around. A strand of hair was near her eye, but not covering it. She walked towards me, her gait sure, and her hand clutching the bag that seemed so out of touch with her image, large enough to put things in it, things that were unnatural for just a visit into town. Her red hair made her care-worn face seem something more wild, like a protective male lion or something. She opened the door, sliding into the seat in front of me without a word. Her scent – something floral mixed with motor oil – filled the cramped space as she shut the door firmly. The vinyl crackled under her weight. She didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead toward the barn’s gaping doorway. Her knuckles whitened around the bigger bag’s strap. The silence thickened, broken only by the wind’s mournful howl around the car’s metal frame. My pulse thudded in my ears. What was the bag for? Were they tired of my lies? Did she figure it out? Were they taking me back? Sean came out of the barn, and he looked at the car briefly with a sour grimace before he proceeded toward us. He seemed to stop to catch a sigh out of the air or something, his heavy breath pushing a fog of sorts onto the window moments before he pulled the long, heavy door open. He squelched as his heavy bottom sank into the vinyl seat, and with a heaviness in his breath and a heavy thud of his door, he turned to look at both Susan and me. "Caitlin," he tried to mimic my native sound rather than the American sound of my name as he said my name kind of carefully. "You are suffering, child. You need help." I blinked up at him. Were we in the car because I was too much for him and Susan? I knew I was bad. Daddy said so. I'm bad and stupid. I ruin everything. I couldn't help my eyes tearing up. "I don't know what that man thought he was doing to you, baby." Sean was still being gentle, and somehow, his words didn't match the atmosphere of him sending me away. So, what was going on? "Those bruises all over your back... especially on your lower left side..., I need to have the doctor look at them. I'm worried." I started to open my mouth, but nothing came to mind to say. I was supposed to say something, I knew it. But I was in shock that anyone cared about what my back or my stomach or anything looked like. I felt my mind crowd with the worry of keeping my punishments hidden. It was MY shame. I was the one that did stupid things and Daddy had to teach me. "It's just love taps," I repeated words that both Mama and Daddy often said about Daddy correcting my stupidity. "It don't hurt none, honest." Sean shook his head. "Love taps don't leave purple marks on your skin, baby. Love taps don't make it so you feel it hours after you are hit. These are no love taps. I might not be able to stop him what he does at your house, but at my house, those are not love taps, and it doesn't change the fact... that you pee your pants all the time. I'm worried that maybe he hurt you inside, and that might be a reason you are peeing the bed, honey." I shook my head. "No? I just... I'm stupid. I pee in the daytime, too. Remember?" Susan turned and looked me in the eye. I had to look down away trying not to meet her gaze that might reveal that I had pooped my pants on purpose earlier. "Sweetie?" Her voice was honey-soft. "You do pee in the daytime," she admitted. "And that's even more concerning. You are going to be ten years old soon, right?" "In... September." "Well," Susan shifted, making the vinyl crackle under her. "You are definitely old enough to have control over your little body. Whatever is causing the loss of control and causing you to have accidents, it is our responsibility while we have you, to make sure that one of the reasons isn't because your body is hurt inside. Do you understand?" I felt my legs jitteriness, like they wanted to carry me out of the car, but both doors were trapped, only being opened by the front, and being blocked by the two adults that didn't understand anything at home, and who I was still expected to lie to... if I wanted a home to return to after the summer. I shook my head. "I'm not hurt, honest. Daddy took me to see the doctor about wetting before. I'm just stupid. The doctor said so, too. He said my brain doesn't get the message in time, especially when I'm sleeping, so I start peeing before I can get awake to go potty." Tears threatened a downpour, but still caught up in my eyes, threatening. "I'm just stupid, Aunt Susan." Sean drew in a sharp breath. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like ropes under his weathered skin. "No." The word was low, rough, cracking like stepping on frozen mud. "You ain't stupid, Caitlin. Not even a little bit." He glanced towards the barn, his jaw working silently for a moment before turning back, his eyes softening impossibly as they met mine in the rear-view mirror. "I saw a picture your daddy showed me before you came in the door. I know he was trying to downplay it, and tried to act like... well, what he didn't realize, is that I saw that drawing--those flowers? The way you saw the light catching the petals? That ain't stupid. That's... sharp. Real sharp." I gulped. Even Ms. Marlow had complimented my drawings all the time, and when everyone got little slips of homework excuses and prize chips for math, spelling, and other things, I was the one that earned them most of the time for art. Ms. Marlow said that art was my thing. "Art is a waste of time," I repeated Daddy's words, and a little stream broke past my lower eyelid on the right and pushed its way, making a trail down my face. "He says that people who don't have any real skills in life draw and try to sell crap to people." I shivered. I knew art was my only good thing, and it was worthless--like me. Susan reached back without turning, her hand landing warm on my knee. "Sweetheart, listen to me." Her voice held a strange tension, like a wire pulled taut. "That bag beside me? It's got clean clothes. Yours. And... pads." I sighed. "So... so you are sending me to someone else because I'm too stupid for you to watch then," I found myself saying it, not so hurt as I was kind of sad. They did try. They didn't know I was lying to them, either, and that made it feel more fitting to me that they were giving up on me. "No," Sean patted my leg. "You are not going anywhere, baby. Those things we brought with you are so we can take care of you. You are not stupid, and it's not right to force a kid to sit in wet clothes for longer than you need, even if she had peed herself on purpose." His words froze my jittering legs. His fingers tightened on my knee. "Susan and I... we're worried about those bruises. The ones you tried to hide under your shirt yesterday. Purple ain't a love tap colour, Caitlin." The vinyl seat groaned under him as he leaned towards the gap between the front seats, his face earnest. "We're driving into town right now. To Doc Henderson. He needs to check you over, especially… down there." His gaze flickered downwards towards my lap for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my face, his cheeks flushing slightly. "To see if something inside got hurt." My stomach churned. They knew. They knew. Not just about the wetting, but about... Daddy. About the sharp slaps low on my back, the hard pinches on my thighs when I forgot to flush, the way he’d grab my arm and twist until I cried out. Shame, hot and thick, flooded me, making the cold vinyl feel slick under my palms. They were going to look. They were going to see everything. I shivered. "Cait?" Sean whispered, his voice still gravel-like as though he wasn't used to the concept. "Remember what we told you when we left your parents behind in Idaho for the summer?" I blinked up at him, not sure what he was saying about that. "You are safe with us. You are allowed to just be a baby and pee your pants until we figure things out. No hitting, no shouting, and no shaming for a little saltwater. Okay? You don't have to be scared to wet your pants, baby." His words hit me like a warm blanket, thick and sudden. The knot in my throat tightened unbearably. Outside, the wind screamed against the metal shed, tinny and frantic. Susan’s hand squeezed my knee again, her knuckles pale against the dark vinyl. The bag beside her suddenly felt huge, monstrous—clean clothes and pads meant I wouldn’t smell, wouldn’t embarrass them in town. Sean turned the key; the engine coughed to life, vibrating through the seat into my bones. The sour smell of old gasoline mixed with Susan’s floral oil scent. He shifted gears with a heavy clunk, and the tires crunched over gravel as we pulled away from the barn, the house shrinking in the side mirror. As the house started to disappear, Susan reaffirmed his tender comfort. "Sweetie, even if you get scared and pee on purpose, we won't mind. You don't have to do it on purpose if you want to tell us to take you or something, but don't be scared... even if you do it on purpose, okay?" "Susan?" Sean looked over at her for a moment before looking back at the road. "I told her, Sean, because you can see it in her face. She thinks the wetting is all her fault. If she knows she's allowed, even if she thinks it's her fault, then she won't be as scared when it happens...." Sean grunted, but nodded. "Okay." The silence stretched, filled only by the engine's uneven rumble and the rhythmic thump of tires hitting potholes on the dirt track leading to the main road. Dust billowed behind us, swallowing the barn and the empty fields. My fingers traced the cold seam of the vinyl seat beside my thigh, digging into the gap where the material had split slightly. Inside, something sharp and brittle shifted—like a splinter working loose. Was safety something you could feel? Could it be this… absence? The absence of flinching when Sean shifted, the absence of calculating Daddy's mood in Mama's tense shoulders? The rhythmic hum of the tires on the road. The quiet, secure presence in the car. The peace of this little cocoon of metal put me to sleep. I didn’t know how far town was, but when I felt the car suddenly stop, I woke up. Immediately, I put my hand in my lap, checking to see if I had peed. I hadn’t. My bladder twinged, a dull ache low in my belly, familiar and unwelcome. Panic flared hot. No. Not now. I clenched my jaw, squeezing my knees together hard, looking around for a moment to see if there were any watching, staring, accusing eyes on my lap. Susan was getting my bag and some papers together from her purse. Sean was turning off the car, and he and Susan exchanged looks before they got out. Then Sean walked around to Susan's side after closing his door, and that's when they bent the seat forward for me. Sean could see me squeezing my hand into my crotch. "Need to go before we go inside?" he asked softly. My cheeks burned. It was the question Mama always hissed through clenched teeth in public places. But Sean’s voice held no impatience—just a quiet readiness. I swallowed, the ache in my bladder sharpening. Outside, the squat brick clinic loomed, its windows reflecting the bruised violet sky of approaching evening. The parking lot smelled faintly of antiseptic and hot asphalt. Through the glass doors, I saw a blurry figure walk past a reception desk. It felt too exposed here. Too bright. Too many strangers who might smell wet pants. My throat closed. Sean sighed, and he picked me up. "Come on, sweet pea. I'll just start taking you towards the bathroom, and remember, if you want, you can just pee. I won't mind. Susan will follow us, and if we need, I'll go out and get your clean clothes from her when I get you on the toilet, okay? You can even pee your pants on purpose. I promise." He patted my bottom the whole time. "Besides, I'm not sure it's good for you to be holding it right now,” he murmured in my ear. “We don't know what damage has been done inside, so please, don't be scared to wet your pants. You can do that, or you can hold it, if you can, and we'll be on the toilet in a moment." He carried me as he talked to me. There was no accusation, but more of... as if he wanted me to pee my pants or something? I mean... it wasn't exactly that. He told me I'd be on the toilet in a moment... but the way he said it. It's like... go ahead and pee my pants? I was confused. He wasn't supposed to be nice about it, or hugging me and carrying me, knowing it'd get all over him if he was encouraging me to wet, was he? I turned and looked where we were going, and Susan was just ahead of us as we approached the glass doors into the building. There was a quiet sound of something that was supposed to be private in there. You weren't supposed to be loud. It smelled like lemon cleaner, scorched clean floors, and a bright ceiling. The place was too clean to let anything dirty leak on the floor, especially my shameful bodily fluids. I tried harder to squeeze my legs, but around Sean, they were sort of kept apart as he had me securely against his trunk, my head in his chest, when I wasn't looking where he was walking. He paused at the door, letting Susan hold it open. Inside the waiting room, hard plastic chairs lined the wall. A young woman sat near the receptionist's desk, bouncing a baby on her knee. The baby cried softly. Sean turned without speaking and headed straight toward a sign that said 'Restrooms' with arrows pointing both ways. He whispered against my hair, "Almost there." My bladder pulsed urgently. Every step jostled me, increasing the pressure. I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face deeper into Sean's shirt. His flannel smelled like woodsmoke and damp earth - a strangely comforting scent amidst my terror. The hallway narrowed; footsteps echoed too loudly on polished linoleum. Ahead, Susan hurried to open the bathroom door marked with a wheelchair symbol. I didn't notice anything different about the feel of my regular panties, Daddy always put me in, and the new panties that Sean and Susan had me in at the moment. When we got them at the store the day before, I could see they were made differently and even a little thicker. When they had put them on me, I thought they felt different, but comfortable, and they didn't push my legs out half as much as I thought they would. But through the car ride, I hadn't noticed, until now. My bladder spasmed, sharp and sudden, as we passed through the clinic doorway. Warmth flooded into my panties instantly, soaking through the thick cotton padding. It didn't spread; it pooled against me, contained somehow. The panic froze, replaced by stunned confusion. I hadn't squeezed hard enough for it to happen that fast! Sean didn't react. His steady heartbeat thumped against my ear, his arm secure around me as he carried me straight past the startled receptionist and down the hallway. The wet warmth pressed against my skin, strangely comfortable, like sinking into a warm bath. A faint chemical smell – like baby powder – mixed with my own scent. My pants weren't even wet on the outside. We got into the toilet, and Sean worked to get my pants and my panties down for me, and then he put me on the toilet. The white cold plastic toilet seat felt welcome under my butt as I felt the peeing start to push out in squirts. Sean smiled, and he put a comforting hand on my back. "Made it," he whispered to me, keeping his heavy, secure hand of protection on my shoulder. I relaxed, and the pee picked up. I was sitting here, some pee in my panties that didn't get on my pants, and Sean wasn't yelling about the little spill at all. Susan came in then with the bag. Sean took it from her and put it on the sink countertop. Inside, he pulled out the clean panties--those thick ones, and clean pants. He turned away politely as I finished peeing. "There's a clean pad in there, too," Susan told Sean. "That will save her embarrassment. Her private business is no one but ours. If she wets a little on the pad, then no one needs to know. It will save her if she almost makes it." "Like now?" I thought seeing that there was a thin little pad in my panties that had some kind of gel or something that had puffed it up a little where my pee went in it. I looked over at Susan, and then realized her arms were not as strong as Seans, but just the same, she had just protected me from accusing stares. If I hadn't had this lining thing in my panties.... And she was the one that insisted we get the bulkier panties, though at the time I thought they looked like baby undies. I didn't say nothing, of course. They were buying new panties. I wasn't going to complain. Sean cleared his throat softly, still facing the sink. "Doc Henderson's a good man. Seen him since I was knee-high." His reflection in the mirror above the sink was blurred, but I caught the tightness around his eyes. "He'll be gentle. Just tell him… whatever feels right. Or don't. We'll be right with you either way." Susan came over and helped me get my pants changed, and then Sean reached down to pick me up. "What's important, baby," Sean reminded me. "Is we want to make sure you aren't injured. Sometimes, peeing happens when you are injured inside, and your bladder can't wait as long when it's hurt." He rubbed my back as we went to sit in the plastic chairs in the waiting room. Susan left us for a moment to go to the front to get a clipboard and the papers, I guess, to let them see me. "We should have brought your rabbit or something with us," Sean seemed to have remorse about that. "She would have helped you feel a little safer." I guess he felt me jittery a little because he held me. But I didn't feel like she would have been as much help as Sean's strong arms were. "Thank you," I whispered up at him. He looked a little confused about why I was thanking him, so I went on. "For the bathroom. For not letting me pee in my pants and making me be bad, again." He hugged me a little tighter. The receptionist called my name softly. Sean carried me down a hallway smelling of bleach and something faintly metallic. A door opened into a small room—white walls, a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, cabinets gleaming under fluorescent lights. Doc Henderson stood waiting. He was old, with kind eyes behind thick glasses and hair like spun silver. "So, what seems to be the problem today?" The doctor's voice was soft and patient. But I felt the shame burning inside, and when I opened my mouth, I couldn't speak. I knew that I peed my pants on purpose, and that I was stupid. Those were hardly things the doctor could fix. My face felt flushed, hot, and cold at the same time. My hands shook, and my legs kicked jitterily while I was sitting on the examinating table-bed thing. I looked at Sean, scared of him getting upset if I couldn't get the words out, but when I opened my mouth, still, it just hung open. What was I supposed to say? Doc Henderson leaned closer. "How about we let Sean and Susan step outside for a moment? Sometimes it's easier to talk without an audience." He smiled warmly. "Just you and your doctor, Caitlin." Susan squeezed my hand—a quick, firm pressure—before following Sean out. The click of the door closing sounded like a gunshot. I started to cry, and I shivered. I didn't like it. I wanted Sean and Susan. I was scared to say I wanted them. I shook, I grabbed, and twisted my hands in each other. My legs squirmed and I pushed my hands into the lap of my pants like I had to pee, but I didn't. I already peed not just before they called me. I knew daddy would be mad I was seeing the doctor without his permission. I knew that I was stupid and causing trouble. I felt like ice was coating my throat, like those ice things that hang from caves, so long and unforgiving, that you wouldn't be able to breathe if it were stuck down your throat. I was seeing Daddy's beer bottle broken on the floor in explanation, while he cursed words at me like that I wasn't allowed to say. I actually felt something dampen my panties, but I thought I was done peeing? Doc Henderson sighed. He patted his knee. "Caitlin, come here, baby." I shook my whole shoulders with my head. I didn't need the doctor. I wanted Sean. I wanted Susan! I didn't feel safe, here, at all. Doc Henderson didn't push. He just pulled his rolling stool closer to the exam table, his knees bumping the paper-covered edge. "Alright," he murmured, his voice low and steady like creek water over smooth stones. "Tell you what. You don't have to say a word right now. I just need to listen." He lifted his stethoscope, the cool metal disc dangling. "May I?" His eyes held mine, patient, waiting. "Can... can Sean come back first?" I asked, tears streaming down my face, my body still acting as though it was in an Earthquake, and my head spinning. "I don't... I want Sean." Doc Henderson smiled gently. "Of course, sweetheart." He rose slowly, his knees popping softly, and opened the door to the hallway. Sean stood immediately, shoulders tense. "She's asking for you," the doctor murmured. Sean nodded. "I sort of knew she would, but I didn't want you to think it was just me controlling the child. She's got some problems, for sure, but today, I'm more concerned about some bruises my wife and I found when we bathed her." Sean slipped back into the room. His large, calloused hand engulfed mine instantly, warm and grounding. The tremors in my legs eased slightly. "Right here, Cait," he murmured, thumb rubbing circles on my knuckles. "You just hold onto me." He positioned himself beside the narrow bed, his flannel sleeve brushing my arm—a constant point of contact. Doc Henderson resumed his place on the stool, his stethoscope still held gently. "Okay, Caitlin. Deep breath for me now? Like you’re blowing out a birthday candle." The cold disc pressed against my chest through my thin shirt. I breathed shakily, focusing on Sean’s solid presence beside me, the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to him cutting through the antiseptic hospital smell. The doctor listened intently, his brow furrowed. He moved the disc lower, to my belly. I tensed instinctively, shame coiling tighter. Sean’s hand squeezed mine—a silent anchor. I felt a little more pee come out. How could I be peeing? I just went? I shivered as I sat there, scared of getting caught any minute. Sean's hand steadied me, though, so I just held it. His presence allowed me to not tell on myself. It allowed the doctor to do his job, for now, and he didn't know I was slowly wetting my pants.... The thick panties and the pad inside that Susan insisted on still protecting me in her own way. Doc Henderson moved with practiced gentleness, his fingers pressing lightly on different parts of my stomach, asking if anything hurt. I shook my head each time, the sensation distant beneath the thrumming panic. My eyes stayed locked on Sean’s weathered face, the deep lines etched around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched almost imperceptibly. His thumb never stopped its soothing rhythm on my hand. When the doctor touched my left side, just between my stomach and my back, I flinched. I still said no, but the doctor could tell that I wasn't being honest. He furrowed his eyes at me, but then turned to Sean. "She's not being honest about where it hurts. While I can detect the worst places this way by watching her reactions, it's still not enough to give me the whole picture. I think we are going to have to do some more expensive tests...." "Whatever it takes," Sean said in a low, calm voice. "We'll manage. That child needs this." "Okay. Well, do you think she can give me a urine sample soon?" Sean sighed and shook his head. "She just peed before you saw her. She had to go pretty bad and was kind of scared she'd wet herself, so I took her to the bathroom." Doctor Henderson smiled. "Of course. Well, we do have a lot of tests to do. Do you have a few hours?" "We do now," Sean smiled and looked at me. "This is more important than anything else we have to do." I felt my heart stop in my throat. Did Sean just say that I was more important than anything else they had to do? What about eating? What about not peeing his pants? What about sleeping? Did he really mean it? I shivered at the thought. Here I was, causing trouble because I was lying, peeing on purpose, and being stupid? I shivered even with his hold on my hand, that I was really liking. Doctor Henderson's gentle expression didn't change. He opened a drawer and pulled out a clear plastic cup with a blue lid. "No rush for the sample now. I'll need one later, when her bladder's fuller." His gaze shifted to Sean. "For now, let's focus on those bruises." He nodded towards a curtained corner. "Susan packed clean clothes? We'll need to examine her abdomen and back thoroughly. You can stay, Sean. Hold her hand." "Susan, too?" I asked weakly as I realized the clothes, the thick panties, and the pads were all her doing. "Please?" Doc Henderson nodded, his silver hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. "She can come in." Susan entered silently, her expression calm but her fingers twisting together until Sean caught her hand. They flanked the examination table, twin anchors. The doctor got this little computer thing out of a corner, and he put some kind of gel on the end and then he asked Sean. "Lift her shirt just to her chest, not over it, and pull her pants down just to the bone, no lower." I tried not to squirm. The gel stuff was cool and kind of sticky feeling. I didn't mind when they unzipped my shorts or anything. The doctor couldn't see inside my panties, where it was a little wet. He just move the machine's white thing around my stomach like it was some kind of computer clickity thing. I wasn’t sure what it was called. I had never really seen any computers except a couple of places at school. The computer screen changed as he moved it around. I think I started to stink, but I tried not to think about that. If I didn't say it was me, maybe the doctor wouldn't know I just peed my pants when just before he asked for a pee experiment from me. Doctor Henderson's eyes narrowed slightly as he focused on the grainy image flickering on the small monitor. He moved the mousing white want thingy with slow, deliberate pressure just below my ribs. "Deep breath in... hold it..." His voice was a low murmur. The gel felt slick and cold against my skin. Sean's grip tightened fractionally on my hand; Susan stood statue-still beside him, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the exam table. The only sounds were the low hum of the machine and the rapid, shallow rhythm of my own breathing. "Sorry, baby, I am going to have to look a little lower on your hip. Can we pull your panties down a bit more?" I looked up at Sean, scared that he was going to see that I did pee some, and scared that he was going to be mad when he saw the bruise. Sean knew it was there. He had seen it. I shivered, and I squeezed his hand tight, not knowing what to say. Sean looked down at me and nodded softly. "It's okay," he whispered. He helped ease my shorts down over my hips, exposing the top edge of the thick cotton panties Susan had bought. His fingers brushed against the damp fabric as he tugged gently. He paused for just a second—his thumb pressing lightly over the wet spot near the elastic—but he didn't react. Instead, he smoothly folded the waistband down just enough to reveal the ugly purple-green bruise blooming like rotten fruit across my hipbone. "I was afraid of that," the doctor frowned. "I'm sorry, baby, but we are going to have to do an Xray. Sean and Susan can walk you down where they do it, but they can't be in the room with you. You also need to fully remove your clothes and put on a gown for me. Your clothes may have metal parts and things that will block the machine's sensors. Do you understand?" I looked up at him. "But Sean? He... he's safe," I admitted finally. "I... I need him." Doctor Henderson shook his head. I can't let you go in the X-ray room," the doctor told Sean matter-of-factly. "You are going to have to talk her down. I'm sorry. I NEED this X-ray." Sean and Susan watched the doctor leave after he pointedly looked at the cup for a urine sample, and handed them a gown from a closet. It was really thin, and it didn't look like it covered you well. I shivered. Sean and Susan started to remove my clothes, and Susan saw my panties were kind of wet. She didn't say anything though. She just put the wet panties and pad away. "Maybe the pad will be enough?" Sean voiced while they got the gown on me. At least only my butt was exposed, so I was glad the open part went in the back instead of in front. Even then, it had some ties, but not nearly enough. Susan shook her head as she handed Sean the gown. "The pad has gel in it now. It will absorb liquid, but it also has plastic backing. If she pees a little during the Xray, it will leak everywhere. Plus, the metal clips." She sighed. "She needs to be entirely naked. No diapers, pads, metal snaps, nothing." She knelt close to me. "Caitlin, honey, Sean and I will be right outside the Xray room door the whole time. We're not leaving. If you need to pee again, it's okay. They'll just clean it—no yelling, I promise. But you need to be bare." Sean coughed. "Yeah, not what I meant, Susan. He needs a pee sample. She's not able to control herself, I was thinking, if she wet in her padding enough, maybe it would get enough pee in it he could squeeze it out? Making her try to pee when she's having these issues, just seems... mean and pointless to me." Susan gave Sean a sharp shake of her head. "He needs a clean sample, directly into the cup. Anything else might be contaminated. It's important." She smoothed the gown awkwardly over my shoulders. "Caitlin, you're going to be brave for this. Sean will hold you until the last second." I heard them talking. I didn't want to make them fight or get Sean in trouble. "Can I try the cup now? I almost wet my pants again. Maybe there's something in there?" Sean lifted me gently off the table. "We'll try." The cold tiles seeped through my socks as he carried me back to the restroom Susan had found earlier. Inside, the overhead light buzzed loudly. Sean set the sterile cup on the edge of the sink. "It's okay if it's just a little," he murmured, helping me position myself over the toilet. My hands shook as I held the cup, the plastic cold against my skin. Nothing came at first—just the ache and the fear tightening my chest. Sean waited silently, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. Then, a weak trickle pattered into the cup. I gasped, relieved. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Try just a little more," Sean encouraged me. "See the line? It has to get at least to that line, and then you can stop. Can you try?" His voice was soft, supportive, a low... very low bear growl. The pee came slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip. Then a little faster. I squeezed my legs tight, but then I relaxed them. The pee started to flow a little faster. I didn't have to push, but it felt like something was pushing inside me anyway. The cup got heavier as the yellow pee filled up to the line. I stopped peeing then. I didn't mean to stop, but I stopped. It was like a faucet shutting off. I put the lid on tight and handed it to Sean. He took it without hesitation, setting it aside to wash his hands first. The water ran hot, steam rising, washing away any trace of me. He took me to the potty and sat me down. "Just in case, baby. Remember, you are allowed to pee, whether in the potty or not, but you'll feel happier if you pee in the potty, I dare say." He turned away politely. I sat there for a few minutes, and nothing came. The panic started to build again. What if I couldn't do it? What if I wet the gown? What if the doctor got mad? Sean could tell I was tensing up. He washed his hands, drying them on a paper towel. "It's okay, pet," he motioned for me to come to him. "If you wet later, you wet later. No one will mind, baby." His eyes blinked slowly and purposefully. His head moved slowly and smooth, and his hands stayed low, but an inviting palm faced towards me to come to him. "Remember, you can pee your pants, baby... even on purpose. I won't mind." Sean carried me back down the hallway, the sterile gown fluttering open at the back. Each step echoed off the linoleum, and I buried my face against his neck, inhaling woodsmoke and damp earth—scents that anchored me against the clinical bleach sting. The X-ray room loomed ahead, its heavy door slightly ajar, revealing shadowed machinery inside. Susan stood waiting, her knuckles white where she gripped her purse strap. "Almost done, sweetheart," she murmured, tucking the gown tighter around my waist as Sean set me down. Her fingers brushed my bare hip, cool against the bruise—a reminder of what hid beneath skin. "Sean?" Susan sort of whispered worried just as the doctor took my hand to lead me into the room. Before the door closed us off, I thought I heard "...broken bones?" The X-ray only took a few minutes. It was sort of like getting your picture taken, I suppose, except they were taking pictures of inside instead of your face. It happened so slow at the time, and yet I was so busy following directions, doing what they said, that after it was done, it felt like I hadn't even started. That wasn't the only thing they did to me, though. I had to get in this really big white thing that went around my body, and then they took my blood and did other things. I think we were there all afternoon, and before we finally could leave, the doctor met us again. Doctor Henderson clicked on the computer screen, pointing at shadowy smudges among stark white bones. "See this fracture line?" His fingertip traced a jagged streak across my hipbone on the image. "It's healing, but improperly. The bone edges didn't align when it broke." He turned to Sean and Susan, his voice grave. "She needs surgery. Soon. That misalignment will cause chronic pain, mobility issues—it could cripple her if left untreated." He scrolled to another image—blurry, dark shapes near my kidneys. "And these shadows… possible internal scarring from blunt trauma. We'll need further scans." Sean's hand clenched into tight white fists that tensed so much, I thought he wanted to hit the doctor, but as he shook there, Susan was the calm one, putting a soft hand, both on his back, and on my leg. Under clenched teeth, Sean growled out through a rumble that seemed to shake the floor. "If we went to the authorities, could you prove what caused these injuries?" he asked. Doctor Henderson paused, tapping a pen against his clipboard. "Without Caitlin's testimony? Difficult. But the pattern..." He glanced at me, then lowered his voice. "The hip fracture has a classic torsion signature. Someone grabbed her leg and twisted violently. Repeatedly." "You could at least say that much, then?" Sean asked him. "What about the damage to her kidneys? The blunt trauma. Is that something that can happen from a normal kid just playing?" Sean was a shaking volcano at the moment, and I didn't know what was going to set it off. I started to pee my pants right there... without even knowing it was happening. Doctor Henderson leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Blunt trauma to the kidneys? No, Sean. That's not from falling off a bike. That's someone hitting her. Hard. Repeatedly." His eyes flickered to me, curled trembling on the exam table, gown dampening beneath me. "I'll document every injury. Photograph the bruises. The fracture pattern alone is textbook abuse." He sighed, rubbing his temples. "But proving who did it? Without Caitlin..." "I'll worry about proving it, and allow the police to do their jobs, too. They have other children in that house. I can get them to check the second-oldest kid. I know she's not his.... She might have similar injuries! I just need a doctor's testimony that these are not child-induced. I trust you more than anyone else the police could try to subpoena." The growl was still in his voice. I shivered knowing they were going to see I peed my pants in front of the doctor again, and without the cotton panties and the pad, it went everywhere, and I was afraid I might have caused them shame. They were helping me, and I shamed them. I didn't realize they were talking about sending Daddy to jail yet. Doctor Henderson nodded sharply. "I'll prepare the report immediately. Surgery should be scheduled within forty-eight hours—delaying risks permanent nerve damage." He rose, handing Susan a stack of papers. "Get her admitted tonight. I'll call ahead." "Susan, you call that friend of yours, and you tell her we know what that bastard did to Cait. You tell her she's not going back there," he growled. "And if I get my way, we're at least taking the second eldest, too. If he's hitting Cait, then he's hitting that one, too." Susan nodded, clutching her purse tight. She walked off down the hall, probably to find a payphone. The gown was soaked through by now, cold and heavy against my legs. I stared at the wet patch spreading on the linoleum beneath my bare feet—a dark, spreading stain of shame. Sean walked over to my side, picked me up, and rubbed my back. "It's okay, baby," he tried to tone down his roaring, tense voice. "This is no one's shame but that man that did this to you." Doctor Henderson handed Sean a towel. "Why don't you get her into a dry gown before surgery prep? I have to get a team together, and of course, she'll feel most comfortable with you until she has to go off to surgery." "I'm sorry, I peed," I whispered. "You are a baby, right now," Sean told me. "Remember? You don't apologize for protecting yourself or for your body having trouble. You just pee your pants and tell us you are wet when it happens. It's not a big deal, honey." He kissed my forehead. "You are safe now, baby. No more beatings for anything, no matter if we do need to scold you, no beatings!" I felt my gut sicken. He was still being nice about it. I couldn't keep lying. "Uncle Sean? I pooped my pants earlier--on purpose. I did it because... I have to, and if you tell Daddy, I won't have a home after this summer, and now, I don't know where I'd live." Sean froze for a heartbeat, his arms tightening around me. Then his breath released in a slow sigh that sounded like sorrow, not anger. "Honey, listen to me." His voice was rough gravel. "No one's sending you back. Ever. That man ain't your daddy anymore. He's a monster. And you poopin' yourself? That's a scared kid tryin' to survive. Susan packed supplies for that, too. We'll handle it." He gently laid me back on the exam table, peeling the soaked gown away. The cold air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. My face burned. "You are allowed to poop your pants for a while, baby," Sean whispered to me. "I'll let Susan know you are scared. But you will have a home, honey. If we can wing it, Susan and I will take care of you, and anyone else your ...," he paused. "...Anyone else that man's hitting will leave that house, too, by the time we are done with him." He helped me lie down as Doctor Henderson returned with fresh towels and gowns. The doctor's eyes were calm as he explained gently. "We'll need you to be brave one more time, Caitlin. I need to examine your abdomen again—with skin exposed—to assess bowel sounds. Sean will stay." "Okay," I whimpered, hand holding Sean tightly for a few moments until they had to peel my arms and legs away from him so the doctor could check me again. "Doctor, she's going to need diapers while she's here. I don't think she should be forced to get to the bathroom until at least you fix the bones or whatever needs to be done to help her." Doctor Henderson nodded. "I'll have them bring disposable briefs. They're thicker than Susan's pads but absorbent. Caitlin, honey, I just need you to lie back." His hands moved warm gel over my belly again as Sean held my gaze, anchoring me. The stethoscope pressed cool against my skin, listening for gurgles that weren't there—only tense silence beneath bruised flesh. I looked up at them, wondering what was next. I didn't know what was changing, just yet, but I felt safe. I knew that Sean wasn't going to let me fall or let me get twisted, or even hit me just because I made a puddle somewhere. He told me to pee my pants. He was safe. I didn't have to worry if I couldn't hold it. Susan returned, breathless, her eyes fierce. "Maire says that they are trapped. They have but the one car, and you saw where they lived. She can't get to the car, even when he's home. And it turns out, Sorsche is also hit for wetting the bed, the only thing is, it's not Sorsche peeing the bed even. It's Grienne, Caitlin's supposed twin." Sean frowned. "You can drive, Susan? You could make the trip?" Susan nodded. "Tonight, we both stay with Cait and comfort her. When the surgery is done, and we know Cait's okay, you go get your friend and her daughters--all of them. You wait to go into the property until that man has gone to get drunk or whatever it is he does, and you sneak in and grab them. Don't even pack their clothes. We'll just have to use our savings to get them all things. I don't want you staying a minute longer than you have to. You call your friend tonight, and you tell her not to pack anything. If he sees signs, he might not be gone when you need him to be to rescue them." Susan nodded solemnly, clutching her keys tightly. "I'll call Maire tonight. She'll know to be ready." Her gaze flicked to me, curled on the exam table, clutching Sean's hand like driftwood in a storm. "What about...?" "I'll be staying with Cait. I need to contact lawyers for both criminal and for custody rights over her. Cait isn't your friend's daughter, so I want us to give Cait a safe home. Her oldest sister might need one, too, Erinne. If her dear old...," and again he cut off from saying that word, like it was a cuss word. "...If he goes to jail, Erinne will need a place to hang her hat for a while." "Okay," Susan nodded quickly, leaning down to kiss my cheek. "Be brave, sweet pea. Back soon." Sean put a hand in mine. "You're safe. Baby, we don't want to make the nice nurse's jobs harder, do we?" I shook my head no. “I know it’s going to be hard, honey, but after surgery, you can’t move too easily, and anyway, I don’t want you worry about the toilet for a while, even when you can move, baby. So, I’ve asked the doctor to get diapers for you while you are here. If you wear them, you’ll help out the nice nurses and doctors that are trying to help you.” I stared up into his serious eyes and his sincere mouth. “So I don’t make puddles all over?” “That’s right, baby. I don’t mind the puddles, but the poor nurses have a lot of people to take care of, so it would be hard for them to keep up on your puddles, but if you just wet and poop in a diaper for a while, and ask to be changed when you feel it, then they can manage.” Doctor Henderson nodded approvingly. “She’ll need minimal movement post-op. Diapers are standard practice for pelvic fractures—less strain on the body.” He motioned to a nurse hovering near the door. “Bring the pediatric incontinence kit, please. Size medium-small.” His tone was matter-of-fact, stripping the moment of judgment. The nurse returned swiftly, placing a stack of thick, white disposable briefs on the counter. Sean picked one up, unfolding it with careful hands. The crinkling sound filled the quiet room—a practical whisper against the tension. "Remember, baby. No shame. Uncle Sean says you are allowed to both pee and poop your pants, in your sleep, or even if you are awake but don't feel comfortable moving. The doctor says you are not to move. Okay?" Sean's thumb rubbed circles on my knuckles as Doctor Henderson lifted my gown. Cold air hit my bare skin, making me flinch. The nurse leaned in with the disposable briefs—thick, plasticky cotton with blue cartoon stars. Sean slid one beneath my sore hips, his fingers angling carefully under the bruises. "Arms up, honey," he murmured. I obeyed, lifting trembling arms as he guided the garment over my waistband, sealing the tapes snugly on each hip. The padding hugged my crotch thickly—a strange comfort. Crinkles whispered against the silence as I shifted. Doctor Henderson pressed the stethoscope to my belly again, listening intently. Beneath the gel’s chill, my insides stayed quiet—too tense to rumble normally. The nurse’s pen scratched notes: Hypoactive bowel sounds. "She'll need counseling, obviously," Sean murmured more to himself than to anyone else. The doctor was listening, and the nurse was writing. I remember so many events that screamed I wasn't loved, and yet.... Until now... Until this moment? I wasn't sure what love was. But here it was, a man willing to sit here and call me more important than anything he had to do, and he was wasting money on a doctor to try to fix me, and even told me, I was allowed to wet on purpose, if I wanted to. I sighed so deeply and my eyes started to close. It had been a really long day. Doctor Henderson peeled off his gloves. "Recovery will be long. Pain management, physical therapy..." He paused, studying Sean's face. "And yes. Trauma therapy. Essential." A nurse entered with a clipboard—admission papers. Sean signed them without hesitation, his signature a jagged slash across the page. "Prep her for surgery. Now." His voice brooked no argument. "I'll carry her."

Chapter Nine Jennifer or Brenda in Charge? Who? I was at the large oak table again, this time seated right next to Mr. Greivere, who was at the head of the table, and Jennifer was a cross from me. We each had a copy of the contract in front of us, and it seemed Jennifer had already told her daddy my new rule for her about Nadia and the little house, and though it sounded whiny in the contract, the way it was worded, it still gave Nadia the peace, however, it also enforced Eloise being with her even when mom was there, so she could be taken care of..., but at least Jennifer wasn't allowed to be near her. Even at breakfast, Nadia, Eloise, mom and Shawna, Jennifer's mother were way down at the other end of the table. "Now, Nadia will not be touched," Max, Mr. Greivere stared into my eyes. "But would it be all that bad for her to wear diapers at night? I am sure you were told that servant bathrooms were closed after eight, and if your sister can't wait until eight the next morning, when they open again.... I mean, unless she's used to just peeing her pants in the yard?" I frowned at Mr. Greivere. "Why doesn't the little house have a toilet, again?" "It was meant as a playhouse, and built like ten years ago or so. Your mother's situation made us make due with what we had on hand, and so you are there... for shelter. Unless. Would you like your mother and sister to spend another night in the park again?" I reddened at the implications. "Besides, didn't you say your sister wets the bed, has been doing so since it happened?" "Yes, she's been wetting the bed since daddy died. So?" "Well, diapers would keep her bedding dry so she has a dry place to sleep at night, wouldn't they?" I looked down. "Still, she doesn't do it when she's awake. Let's say I let you put in diapers at night? Why should she wear them in the daytime?" "If that's your decision, I'm sure we can figure something else out for that. But you're soaked, too. You obviously just peed yourself this morning, too?" "Well, like you said, the bathrooms were closed for servants until after breakfast, and I was told seven, but now I am hearing eight... so... I mean, I have to wait from the time I go to the little house until you let me in the big house in the mornings. I guess I'll be wetting my pants a lot more?" "I suppose you will, if you can't wait," he looked over at Jennifer in the eye. "And you don't want Lena in diapers?" "Ew, gross, daddy. She's supposed to be following me around and stuff all day. I don't want her wearing yuck everywhere. I'll just pack changes of clothes for her when we go out. Besides, if she embarrasses herself in front of my friends enough, I'm sure she'll stop peeing herself on her own." He shook his head. "Well, her sister Nadia is not allowed to feel embarrassment, so she will be diapered at night to keep her bed dry, and she will be allowed to remove the diaper when servant toilets are open. We'll figure out something in the little house for during the day for her, but in the meantime, I do suggest Eloise put her diapers until we figure that out." I sighed. "She's not going to like going back into diapers. You are going to have a fight on your hands every night, when it's changing time." "Eloise is experienced in diapering disobedient girls," Mr. Greivere stated his eye looking right through me. "Eloise will handle her. Besides, Eloise will be diapering your mom, too." My jaw dropped. "That's not in my contract, anywhere!" I started to flip through the papers to see if I missed something. "It's in hers," Mr. Greivere smiled smug. "Your contract says that even if Jennifer breaks your terms, and you are let off, your mom is to keep her contract for five years. So mom stays in diapers during work hours, and at night as long as she wakes up in a wet diaper." They turned that against me? Jennifer flashed her too perfect white teeth, her green eyes with real laugh lines present, and a great smug smile at me. "I mean, I wasn't the one that thought to put mom in diapers. But dad put her in one yesterday because she... peed her pants, too earlier. And you are the one that said she is locked into the contract for five years... so work diapered, it is." I glared at the both of them. "Now, now, Lena," Mr Greivere pushed a copy over for me to sign. "Your contract conditions are in the contract just as you requested. Are you going to back out even after we made all your concessions? Just think about where your little sister will end up if you fail to sign a paper you promised to sign." "Fine!" I angrily took his pen and whipped my signature at the bottom. "Charles!" a figure appeared out of the shadows as Mr. Greivere called for the tall man. "Have this paper with the signature copied over four times. One goes on file in staff records, one goes to the little lady here, one to her mother as her once was guardian, one goes to Jennifer, so she can see if she has the right to do something with the miss, and one will be given to Shawna to hold on to." Mr. Greivere obviously didn't need to tell him who was getting what, but probably made it a point to tell me in no uncertain terms that is how it would be distributed without giving me a way in to dispute the word. "So..., she's mine now?" Jennifer asked her dad. "Until four. She gets playtime from four to seven. Remember?" "Well, I was thinking about taking her shopping. If she's having fun and playing, isn't that playtime?" He touched his chin. "If she's having fun. Check with her. If she's not, you either take her home when she says, and her three hours start on her terms, or you will lose three hours in the evening with her." "Fair enough," Jennifer said. "She's disgusting right now, so after breakfast, she needs a shower, daddy. I have to introduce my servant to my friends so we can go shopping for some stuff. She's going to have a bed in my room, so sometimes, she can stay there with me. That's not against the contract...." She let that linger for a moment, her mouth half open ready to complete a thought, but after a minute, she closed her mouth for her dad to respond. "You are right. As long as she gets her three hours, you are allowed to let her sleep over in your room. But didn't you say she pees the bed? Are you sure you want her in your room doing that?" "She's my personal servant, daddy. I'm going to have to get used to her smelling up the room anyway since she always pees her pants. I told you last night she wets herself in class all the time, and we start back to school next week. You are going to use your pull at school to make sure she's in certain classes I have to take, right?" "Of course, princess." Jennifer’s gaze slid toward me, sharp as a blade. "You hear that, Lena? School's going to be... interesting." She flicked a crumb off the tablecloth. "But first, let’s get you presentable. You reek." The scent of coffee and bacon hung thick in the air, but beneath it lingered the unmistakable tang of urine from my damp dress and cotton panties. My cheeks burned as Mr. Greivere nodded curtly, dismissing us. Jennifer rose, heels clicking on polished marble. "Come on, servant." Her command brooked no argument. I sighed and stood up, following her worship (think attitude of Han Solo when they rescued Princess Leiah) in the New Hope and they were arguing about who the group leader was... that's the attitude I had in my head about this privileged brat. "Are you trying to smell like piss all day?" Jennifer asked looking back at me. "Get a move on before I decide we don't have time to let you bathe or even change your panties!" I followed her silently into the hall, the scent of antiseptic cleaner barely masking the damp shame clinging to my thighs. Her heels echoed like gunshots against the marble floor, a stark contrast to my squelching sneakers. Up the grand staircase we went, past oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to judge my every step. At the third door on the left, Jennifer flung it open. "You get fifteen minutes. Towels are in there. And don’t touch my perfumes—they cost more than your pathetic little—I mean, my once was childish playhouse that your pathetic family has nowhere else to go but stay there, in." I slammed the door, shutting her out of my vision. I didn't care to listen to another word. But then the door opened again not more than a couple minutes later. I turned to round on her, though I wasn't sure what I could say since I belonged to her, and this was her time, I wanted to yell about decency and privacy... but it wasn't Jennifer who had come in. "I—I'm sorry," Eloise frowned looking down. "They gave your mom a short break because I'm your governess. It's my job... because you... you know?" I sighed and looked down. "Yeah, I know. Go ahead, I guess." She started to run the bath while I took off the smelly garments, and then she relaxed me in the bath, and started to wash me. With her, on a cart, she had had some shampoos and other soaps that were more... fitting to a servant's station. Nothing expensive, but still functional for cleaning a servant girl. After she washed my hair, she moved on to my breasts and my stomach. The soap felt slippery against my skin, and she didn't hesitate to clean me thoroughly. Then she slid her soapy hands down my legs, washing away the morning's humiliation. Eloise's glassy blue eyes and mouth betrayed sorrow that she had to do this, but I knew she had no choice. I knew she wasn't much older than me, and she was being controlled, too. I looked down into the water. "Do they humiliate you, too?" I asked. "I was Jennifer's toy about eight years ago," Eloise told me. "I was always Mrs. Greivere's servant, but I was often put with Jennifer to entertain her, and yeah, she used to make me pee my pants all the time, too. I don't know why she thinks that's cool or whatever, but she's always been fascinated with others being put in situations where they had no choice, and had accidents, especially if it made them cry. She's going to make you pee your pants while you are out. You know that." Eloise looked me in the eye when she gave me the warning. "I know," I said a tightening in my chest. "I go to her school. I know how mean she can be." "So, she's made you do it at school even before?" "Not exactly. But she has accused not only me, but anyone that wasn't strong enough to stand up to her of doing it. The only reason I couldn't stand up to her, is she smelled what happened for the last year, because while my sister's night time problem only developed recently...," I blushed terribly and shook a bit. "I did wet the bed sometimes in the past, and sometimes didn't have time to get a shower." "Well, that's no reason to shame you," Eloise frowned. "I'm so sorry you are in this situation." The bathwater cooled quickly, the soapy film turning dull against my skin. Eloise rinsed my hair with a pitcher, the water sluicing down my back in cold rivulets. "Jennifer’s friends are worse," she whispered, glancing at the door. "They’ll corner you in changing rooms, 'accidentally' spill drinks on you... make sure you can’t find a bathroom when you need one." Her hands trembled as she handed me a rough towel. "She brags about breaking people." "I'm well aware of who some of her friends are. They kind of ran the junior high school we went to together. The teachers thought they were in charge, but everyone in ninth grade knew who was really in charge; and avoided the whole posse anytime we could." The door opened without warning, Jennifer leaning against the frame, arms folded. "You two gossiping? How cute." Her gaze swept over me, dripping and naked in the tub. "Hurry up. My friends are waiting downstairs, and I don’t want them thinking I hired a zombie turtle or worse…," She tossed a bundle of cheap, scratchy-looking fabric onto the vanity. "Put that on. And Eloise? Don’t forget Nadia’s afternoon diaper change. Daddy wants her in plastic pants today—less leaks." The door slammed shut behind her. "She's not supposed to have to wear diapers in the daytime," I looked pleadingly at Eloise. "I know. She just said that to get on your nerves and to scare you. Your sister puts a diaper on after dinner. That's the new rule. Your mom... is a different story, and I probably do have to check her diaper later, if not someone else daddy put in charge of her." My stomach twisted at the thought of Mom being treated like that. I climbed out of the tub onto the cold tiles. Eloise handed me the towel Jennifer had tossed—thin, frayed at the edges, smelling faintly of bleach. "Dry off quick," she urged, her voice low. "Jennifer's impatient." Eloise helped me into a cute sleeveless top that had rainbow colors down it, but probably to embarrass me, with no bra, and then the thick toddler-like panties that they made me wear all last night along with a skirt that barely covered, them, a jean skirt. I looked at Eloise. "Is she trying to make me look sexy, or like a toddler? I can't tell." Eloise just shook her head as she put some white socks on me and a pair of Mary-Janes, the buckle kind, that you might put on a five-year-old. The brown shiny kindergartener's shoes echoed loudly through the third-floor corridor as I was drug along by the tyrant princess, drawing unwanted attention from anyone that might be around. My hands fidgeted at my sides, trying to pull my shirt over my thighs more, trying to keep my childish-- no babyish-- panties hidden from view. The stairs echoed louder under my shoes, making me feel like I was as obvious as a herd of elephants, and Jennifer smirked with every embarrassing step I took. She pushed at me a bit. "Go on, ladies walk elegantly. Servant girls run ahead to get the door for their mistresses, so hurry along before I reach those double doors ahead. Go." I couldn't help pulling down at the skirt, trying to make sure the panties were covered, even as I reached the set of brown double doors, pushing the handles inward, to reveal a proper sitting room like you'd see in a fantasy movie about kings and queens. Her friends were all lounging around. Brenda, the leader of the group, even sometimes taking the bossy lead away from Jennifer at times at school, sat in the most comfortable seat, a nice elegant seat of velvet brown upon nice well carved legs of a living room sofa chair. Her brown hair framed her wide, misleadingly kind face like a model, and her green eyes were currently alive with laughter as the friends were sharing a joke as I opened the door. The white pristine top she had on had a thin tie from under the exaggerated neck collar, and she had on a mature black skirt with black hose and shiny black high heels. Her gestures were quiet and small, like a lady of station should be. But when she saw me standing there holding the door, Brenda stopped talking and her eyes locked on me with a curious smirk that turned into an evil grin. She seemed to look me up and down, particularly at my skirt that I tried harder to pull further down my thighs, but it couldn't budge without coming loose from my waist. The other two girls in the room seemed to snap their attention towards me, moments after Brenda had. That's how you knew she was the leader. If she narrowed in on something, whatever the others did, they stopped to notice to see if their input was wanted or demanded. "Where is the miss of the house?" Brenda asked me in a haughty better-than-thou tone. I fumbled more with my skirt, feeling even less secure in myself with this thin short scrap of material covering the most babyish panties you could find for a teenager! "She... she's coming," I wiped the toe of my left Mary-Jane against the back of my right leg in nervousness. Barbara, with her hair pulled into a single ponytail behind her black locks and her ears just showing, smirked at me in a way that made even Brenda's current blood-freezing evil grin seem tame. Barbara was known for her cruelty and her demand for respect. She was openly more scary than the barbarians that played rough sports. "She's coming," Barbara mimicked me, only making a voice that sounded much more like a cartoonic baby too scared to tell their teacher they needed help. Barbara had on a simple but elegant bright blue top that looked like it was mean to be a dress at one point, but someone changed their mind midway down, and decided it was a top, but it still had a waist belt that was darker blue, and on her legs, were jean shorts, still new looking. Cindy had a narrow face with long sleek black flowing hair that shined in the little light that was in the room. Her brown eyes seemed delighted to be there, and she neither smiled nor frowned my way, but just had a look, of well, maybe bemusement upon her playful lips. Her white top was even more simple than Brenda's, and she had a nice long black skirt on. She seemed to look down at my short jean skirt. I could almost hear her thinking.... "Bold skirt, baby." Though she actually said nothing. I shivered as she stood there, looking through my skirt, and somehow... it felt like they could see into it, and I crossed my legs to try to hide the front of my panties even more beneath the skirt. I felt a shiver and then a hand touched my shoulder making me jump as Jennifer walked in past me, smiling. "Girls, I know we were supposed to do something fun today, but we have a mission first. My new servant here...." She paused on purpose so they could take in just who her new servant was. "She needs things. As you well know, she wets her pants at school—like all the time, right?" There were nods and agreement noises between them all as I stood by the door, being the outsider, talked about but never invited into the conversation. Jennifer continued, "So we need to go shopping for some stuff for her because I will have to share my room with her. Dad says I need to start learning how to treat servants, so she is my practice doll, my--play doll for teaching me such things, I suppose? As such, she needs a bed of her own in my room because if she pisses her pants at school, then you know what that means at night?" The girls all nodded, and the quiet one that had not seemed as judgmental at first, Cindy, smirked. "I knew she smelled first thing in the mornings, and there was no time she had time to wet her pants yet, unless she doesn't shower?" "She... doesn't know how, actually," Jennifer told Cindy which brought on looks, of almost sympathy, but because there were also accusatory elements in their looks, it looked less like sympathy and more like mockery. "The poor child came into the house for breakfast soaked from wetting herself last night, and then when sent to clean up, couldn't do it herself, so another servant had to help her, which is why we are running late. Don't blame her, though. I should have known a baby like her couldn't do it herself." I clenched my fists behind my back as Jennifer turned to me. "Come on, Lena. We're going to get you some stylish pads to sleep on--bigger than the ones we use for periods. At least that way, if you wet the bed every night like you do at home, it won't soak into the mattress." "Why not diapers?" Cindy smirked. "I mean diapers would...." "Would teach her that it is okay and acceptable to not only wet her panties at night, but to poop herself, too," Jennifer cut her off. "I need to show my dad I can handle my servants, so he can give me my portion of the business when I turn twenty, so... she needs to learn to not potty her pants." Barbara snorted. "Well, that's optimistic. She hasn't learned in sixteen years." "It could be a mother not doing her job situation though," Jennifer smirked at me. "I mean, her little sister even shits her pants!" The heat of humiliation crept up my neck, my fingers twisting the hem of my childish skirt. Brenda tapped a manicured nail against her teacup. "Still, Jennifer... diapers would be practical. As her owner, don't you have a responsibility to protect your mattress?" Her voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "Unless you want the whole room smelling like a sewer?" "Be that as it may...," Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to give her permission to wet her pants, so enough talk about diapers! She is wearing what I decide, and if she makes my room smell, she will get a spanking for it." The declaration hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Brenda merely lifted an eyebrow, swirling her tea. "A spanking? How quaint." Her gaze drifted back to me, lingering on the childish Mary Janes buckled tight over thin ankle socks. "Still, dear... servants need practical solutions. Perhaps plastic sheets? Or those absorbent incontinence pads for elderly patients?" The suggestion dripped with false concern. "Oh, I fully intend to get her whole family plastic sheets for their beds, so cuter ones for my room for sure, for when her bed has to be stripped. And yes, for once a suggestion that makes sense... some absorbent bed pads would be just right... that way, the stain of humiliation can be present as it airs out some days, and it can be washed other days leaving a cute plastic sheet then. I like that. The more humiliated she is, the more likely she'll learn to hold it." Jennifer nodded, seeming pleased with Brenda’s twisted logic. Cindy leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. "We should get her some proper servant uniforms too. Something... functional. Thin cotton. Easy to see through when it’s wet." She chuckled softly. "That way, everyone at school knows exactly what she’s done before the bell rings." Jennifer shook her head. "Dad doesn't like the shame to be purposefully flaunted, and I get it. That's why she's covered for our outing. Otherwise, don't think for a minute, I wouldn’t fully put her in a stroller with nothing more than her training panties and top on. But dad's rules trump mine." Brenda stretched languidly. "Enough talk. Let’s go." She rose, her movements predatory as she approached me. I flinched as her fingers abruptly hooked under the hem of my skirt, flipping it up before I could react. The thick toddler panties were exposed—bright white cotton, embarrassingly thick, with childish lace trim high on the hips. "Still," Brenda purred, her breath warm against my ear, "these are adorable. Perfect for a pissing brat." She let the fabric drop, her laughter sharp as glass. I shivered as the fabric dropped, and then Cindy grabbed my arm. "I'll take my turn right now, walking the baby to the car. I assume you'll want help with your baby servant?" She watched Jennifer with a smirk. Jennifer nodded. "Yes, Cindy. Lead her to the garage door. Barbara and Brenda, please get my purse from the study? My father insists I don't carry my own purse as a lady." I thought I saw a look of ... well... discord when she ordered Brenda to get her purse. At school, everyone knew that Brenda was the leader of their group, and now, I could see the real tension behind that fragile position as it seemed that Jennifer likely thought she had a right to it by birth. The perfect princess mentality for sure. The sudden jerk on my arm pulled me stumbling forward, Cindy's grip like iron. Her fingers dug into my skin as she marched me through the maze of hallways, my childish shoes tapping too loudly on the polished marble. We passed a long row of windows overlooking the manicured grounds outside, and I caught a glimpse of Eloise pushing Nadia on a swing near the small house—my family's prison. Nadia's feet kicked happily in the air, oblivious. Eloise looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a split second before Cindy yanked me around a corner, blocking the view. "So, I want to get her some more appropriate sleeping things because honestly, she's not mature enough for servant sleeping clothes, and then of course a bed and bed things fitting her immature levels, and some... playthings. She handed this to me," Jennifer was chatting with her friends about the plans as we headed for a large car where a driver held the door open for all of us. "She said in her contract, she wants 'playtime!' Imagine that!" The girls laughed. It sounded cruel and sharp, sending shivers down my spine. While we were in the car, the others getting settled, Jennifer fastened my belt for me, and then handed me a paper. "This is your potty schedule. If you don't adhere to it, even if we are in there for other reasons, you don't get to go. Understand?" I nodded. The driver pulled out of the garage, the sudden brightness of the sun blinding me for a second as we drove down the long driveway toward the gate. Your Potty Schedule Jennifer's Approval Required Morning: 8:00 AM Mid Morning: 10:30 AM Afternoon: 1:00 PM Mid Afternoon: 3:30PM Evening: 7:00 PM Before Bed: 10:30 PM NO EXCEPTIONS She glanced at me with a smirk. "That's like six times you get to go, and honestly, the average person should only have to go like three or four times, so that should be plenty of times to get to the toilet. If you leak in your pants, as long as no one else notices--no puddles, then you don't get spanked, but I'll scold you for wetting. And if you make a puddle or make my room smell, you get spanked. Got it?" I nodded again, biting my lip, trying to pull my skirt down even in the seat. Cindy leaned over from the other side of the car. "What's she wearing under that skirt?" "Just practical panties," Jennifer shrugged. "It's not like they are designed for babies or something," she lied. "But they are... well, she's not ready for full lady privileged panties, yet. Her mom isn't even ready for that." Barbara leaned forward from the sofa like perch she sat within the limosine, her eyes narrowing as she studied my lap. "Pull your skirt up, Lena. Let’s see what ‘practical’ looks like." My fingers froze on the denim hem—cold sweat prickling my neck. Jennifer gave a curt nod, her expression daring me to disobey. Slowly, trembling, I lifted the fabric just enough to reveal the stark white cotton beneath, thick and high-waisted, the childish lace trim unmistakable against my pale thigh. Brenda’s smirk deepened. "Ah. So it’s humiliation disguised as necessity. How very... Greivere." The tension crackled between them—Jennifer’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing as Brenda settled back, her gaze fixed the rear window where she faced forward toward us. "It's not Greivere to humiliate, but it is to teach," Jennifer mumbled under her breath. "If she could just keep her panties dry for two minutes, she wouldn't have to go through this." Cindy leaned closer, her sleek hair brushing against my arm. "If she can't keep her panties dry, why bother hiding them?" She traced the lace trim with one finger, making me shudder. "This is cute... but it looks like it would hold a lot. Is that the plan? Give her something thick enough to soak up an accident?" "No. She's not supposed to wet her pants," Jennifer was not liking how this was going. I think Jennifer wanted it to be my fault, and her friends to see it as my fault, but that's not what seemed to be happening right now. It looked like it was more and more her fault, and maybe... that would get her to ease off of me... maybe. Barbara snorted from her seat beside Brenda. "Don't kid yourself, Jen. This fabric screams 'diaper substitute.'" Her finger jabbed toward the thick padding between my legs. "That's why my mom puts my grandma in similar ones—minus the babyish trim." The words landed like stones. Jennifer flushed crimson, her knuckles white on her purse strap. "It's... it's transitional! Until she learns bladder control!" she snapped, but her voice cracked. Jennifer eyed me with malice, as though, I had started this, and it was my fault. She looked more and more upset the more it didn't go her way, and somehow, I was starting to wonder if her own humiliation was going to get me in worse trouble with her later. "Lena, take those ridiculous things off," Jennifer ordered me. "My dad," she explained to her friends. "You weren't supposed to see her panties. But you're right. That thing is like a diaper. She can just wear nothing underneath for now, but we'll get her some fitting panties at the store before we do anything else. A servant at Greivere cannot go without panties on. That's worse than wearing a diaper in public." She ordered me to remove the thick panties right there in front of her friends. My face burned crimson as I slipped them off under my skirt, feeling completely exposed and vulnerable without them. Jennifer snatched them from me and tossed them onto the limousine floor like trash. "Thinner panties means you better not even leak a little bit, though, you got it? Any hind of a puddle means a spanking!" The limousine purred along the tree-lined avenue, sunlight flashing through the tinted windows in blinding streaks. Exposed skin prickled against the denim skirt as the air conditioning blew cold. Every slight bump in the road felt like a spotlight. Jennifer’s glare burned into the side of my face. Brenda watched me with unnerving stillness, her polished fingernail tracing the rim of her glass of sparkling water. Cindy leaned casually against the plush leather, her dark eyes occasionally drifting downward toward my lap, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Barbara’s snort hung in the air like smoke. "Hope the driver doesn't hit a pothole. That'd be... messy." The driver smoothly navigated a curve, the centrifugal force pressing me against the seat. I squeezed my thighs together, the coarse fabric of the skirt rubbing raw against suddenly bare skin. The sense of vulnerability was suffocating—no barrier, no protection. Jennifer’s threat echoed: Any hint of a puddle. Every tiny pressure, every shift in position, felt amplified, terrifying. My bladder already felt like a clenched fist, a dull ache building beneath the relentless scrutiny. The scent of Jennifer’s expensive perfume warred with the faint ozone smell of the air conditioning, sharpening the dread. Cindy tugged my skirt hem higher, deliberately slow. "Still, Jen, letting her ride commando? Bold." Her fingertip brushed my knee, making me flinch violently. Brenda’s gaze sharpened, predatory. "Indeed. Interesting parenting technique, Jennifer. Very... hands-on." Jennifer flushed crimson again, her knuckles tightening around her purse strap until the leather creaked. "It’s not parenting! It’s servant management! Discipline!" she hissed, her voice strained. Barbara chuckled, low and dark. "Discipline requires consistency. Are you *sure* you’re ready for the fallout if she leaks all over this imported leather?" She tapped the seat beside her. The implication was clear: Jennifer’s prized status symbol, potentially ruined. Jennifer’s eyes darted to the pristine upholstery, then back to me, panic warring with fury. "She... she won’t," Jennifer stammered, a tremor in her voice betraying her doubt. The pressure inside me intensified, sharpening into a desperate, urgent throb. I closed my eyes, focusing on the hum of the engine, the vibration through the seat—anything but the mocking stares and the terrifying emptiness beneath my skirt. "Well," Jennifer was tired of Brenda's game knowing she was cuing the others to agree with her. "What do you think I should do? Let the servant act like a baby and get confused, and piss herself all over everything all the time? That's not happening." Cindy leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming as she toyed with the hem of my skirt. "Then give her something discreet. Thin panties lined with plastic—like those travel incontinence pads. They’d prevent stains without looking... juvenile." Her fingers pinched the denim fabric, twisting it slightly. "You could even call them ‘training underwear.’ Fits the narrative, doesn’t it?" Jennifer’s lips tightened, but she didn’t immediately dismiss it. Brenda gave a slow, approving nod. "Practical and punitive. Elegant." The limousine slowed, pulling into the bustling mall entrance. Jennifer snatched my wrist, her nails biting into my skin. "Fine. But if she poops her pants because she's not learning...," Her whisper was venomous. "You get to clean her up, Brenda, since you seem to worried about her, and before she gets clean... Cindy... You have to spank her on her poopy panty for siding with Brenda!" I was trembling as the driver opened the door. Sunlight and the scent of fast food washed over me, but the chill of exposure clung tighter than my skirt. Jennifer shoved me forward by my elbow. "Walk properly! And stop squeezing your legs together—you look ridiculous," she hissed, her breath hot against my ear. Brenda exited gracefully, her gaze sweeping the crowded drop-off zone like a queen surveying peasants. Cindy followed, deliberately brushing against me—her hand lingering near my thigh as if ready to yank my skirt higher. Barbara brought up the rear, humming softly. "Would you know where to find those thin panties with the plastic inlays?" Jennifer asked her companions. "I mean, if you are bringing them up, then I assume you know where they are?" Cindy nodded, pointing ahead. "My aunt wears them. They're sold near the incontinence supplies. Follow me." She led the group toward a brightly lit pharmacy section tucked beside a noisy arcade. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on racks of adult diapers and bed pads. My stomach churned at the sight—the clinical packaging, the images of serene elderly models. Jennifer wrinkled her nose. "This section smells like hospitals." Jennifer frowned. "This... won't do. It looks too... lady like. She needs to understand pooping her pants is babyish, not dignified. She's not old like your aunt." Cindy gestured to a lower shelf. "These then." The packaging was simpler—bright yellow with cartoonish droplets. "Discrete Comfort Pads." Brenda smirked, picking up a box. "Thin as paper. Plastic-backed. Says it holds 'light to moderate accidents.' Perfect for a trainee who might... leak." She tilted the box toward me. The illustration showed the pad glued inside plain cotton briefs. My cheeks flamed. Jennifer snatched the box, scanning it like a battle report. "Fine. But the panties must be..." She trailed off, eyes locking onto a nearby display of children's underwear—pink and frilled with cartoon ponies. "Those." Brenda smiled slyly. "Don't you want your little servant to pick out her own panties? I mean... that would be just the icing, wouldn't it?" Jennifer had a finger on her chin for a moment. "I supposed. You get her six pair of panties she picks out, then, Brenda. I'm going to take Cindy and Barbara over there to look at that," but I didn't see where she was indicating clearly. Brenda nudged me forward toward the rack of childish underwear—pink, frilled, plastered with glittery unicorns and smiling flowers. My legs trembled as I shuffled closer, the coarse denim skirt scratching against bare skin with every step. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, amplifying the scent of plastic packaging mingled with Brenda’s sharp jasmine perfume. She leaned in, her whisper deceptively soft. "Go on, Lena. Pick six pairs. Make sure they’re... pretty." Her gaze flickered to Jennifer, still huddled with Cindy and Barbara near the adult incontinence pads—Barbara’s smirk visible across the aisle. My fingers grazed a pair adorned with floppy-eared bunnies. They felt impossibly thin, flimsy compared to the thick cotton humiliation Jennifer had discarded. This is worse, I thought, because now they’ll see everything. Jennifer marched back, clutching the box of pads. "Hurry up," she snapped, shoving the box into my chest. The cardboard corner dug into my ribs. "Brenda, help her choose *properly*—nothing too plain." Brenda plucked a lavender pair dotted with silver stars from my hand. "These’ll show stains beautifully," she mused, holding them up to the light. Cindy snickered, tracing the outline of a plastic pad through the packaging. "Imagine her squirming in math class when the unicorn’s face turns yellow." Barbara added, "Or when Miss Hanley asks why she smells like a nursing home." Jennifer’s laugh was brittle. "Oh, she’ll smell worse after gym class." The fluorescent glare beat down as Brenda draped the chosen panties over my forearm—pastel pinks and purples, fabrics thin enough to see my fingers through them. The cartoonish prints seemed to leer: grinning kittens, winking rainbows. Jennifer snatched a pack of the incontinence pads, tearing it open with sharp precision. Jennifer looked at Brenda with all the panties to buy and handed her the credit card. "You buy the panties, and here," she ripped the price tag from one pair of panties. "Make sure they ring this up with it. I need to get this little child decent. Then, she turned to me. "Bathroom. Now." She propelled me toward the restrooms, her grip vise-tight on my shoulder. The scent of disinfectant hit like a slap as she kicked open a stall door. "Put this on," she ordered, thrusting a crinkly pad at me. "and put this inside it, and don't even dare to make me help you." The plastic backing shimmered under the harsh lights, cold against my palm. I fumbled with the pad, the adhesive strip resisting my trembling fingers. Outside the stall, Jennifer tapped her foot impatiently. "Hurry! You're wasting shopping time." The pad finally clung to the inside of the childish panties—thin cotton, printed with dancing cupcakes. When I emerged, Jennifer seized the waistband, yanking it up sharply. The plastic crinkled faintly, a constant reminder beneath the frilly cotton. She smoothed the skirt down with exaggerated care. "There. Decent. For now." "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to use the toilet, but you have another hour to wait." Then she went into a stall and I could hear everything since I didn't know where to go at the moment. Outside, Cindy’s sharp laughter echoed near the sinks. “Think she’ll last till lunch?” Barbara’s muffled reply floated under the stall door: “With that flimsy pad? Doubt it. Brenda picked the thinnest ones.” I pressed my back against the cold tile wall, the crinkly plastic liner chafing with every breath. Jennifer’s urine stream hissed against porcelain—a taunting reminder of the luxury I couldn’t afford. Before I knew it, Jenner and I were outside the bathroom, and she glared at the other girls. "Brenda, you might think you are the leader, but I'm giving you all a chance now. Use the toilet. Lena goes in an hour, and if she's wet, you'll be helping me with her since you all insisted on this instead of what my dad wanted." Cindy snorted, eyeing Brenda. "Well, Brenda? Should we all go?" Brenda shrugged nonchalantly, but her shoulders were tense as she headed toward the restroom entrance. "Fine. But if she wets herself before then, I'm blaming your choice of pads, Cindy." Barbara followed, her smirk widening as she brushed past me, her elbow deliberately knocking against my hip. Left alone with Jennifer near the bustling mall entrance, I felt the cold air conditioning seep through my thin skirt. The plastic-backed pad felt alien and treacherous against my skin—a flimsy shield against humiliation. "You just had to act like a target in front of them when you were introduced," Jennifer turned this all on me. "All you had to do, was stand there, and pretend nothing was wrong, and no one would have checked your panties... but no...oh... you had to let them see what you were wearing, didn't you?" She glared at me as Brenda and Barbara disappeared into the restroom. Cindy leaned against a nearby planter, her sharp eyes flicking between me and Jennifer. "I'm not changing," Cindy said. "I'll wait." "Changing?" Jennifer asked Cindy. "Did someone tell you to wear the childish panties, too? If Brenda is humiliating our group, this won't go well for her." Cindy pushed off the planter. "I'm not Brenda's dog. But Lena's trembling like a leaf. Watch." She pointed at my hands, clasped tight against my skirt. The crinkle of plastic beneath the cupcake print seemed deafening in the pause. Jennifer’s eyes narrowed, scanning me from head to toe—my hunched shoulders, the way my thighs pressed together. "Stop fidgeting," she snapped. "You're making it obvious." Her perfume, cloying and floral, couldn’t mask the sharp ammonia scent of bleach wafting from the restroom. Every shuffle of passing shoppers echoed like judgment. Jennifer sighed. "Well, I guess she'll learn to suck it up, if she doesn't want to be humiliated. You really should use the toilet though, Cindy. If you wet yourself, you won't be setting a good example for Lena." "I'm fine." Cindy flicked her hair dismissively. Jennifer's eyes narrowed at her. "Alright..., but if you do it, those diapers everyone kept bringing up...?" and she let the threat hang in the air. Cindy shrugged. "I'm not worried about leaking." I didn't understand how they were friends at all. Brenda was trying to control things when Jennifer thought she should be the elegant leader, Cindy was being pestered by Jennifer, almost as bad as I was, and I could tell even Barbara had tension between both Brenda and Cindy. My bladder throbbed as Jennifer steered me toward the bustling mall corridors. The crinkly pad shifted with each step, reminding me how flimsy my protection was. Brenda reappeared, handing Jennifer a glossy bag filled with childish panties. "Six pairs," she announced, her tone smooth as silk but her eyes sharp on Cindy. "All appropriately... infantile." Jennifer smiled and nodded. "Good. We need to go get some bedding stuff next, of course that will be delivered, but we still need to choose the styles, mattress, sheets, plastic, and everything." Cindy looked at Jennifer suspiciously. "Bedding? For Lena? But she's sleeping on plastic sheets already, right?" "She has a bed in the little house with her little family, but sometimes, she needs to stay in my room, and she's not going to wet on MY BED in our sleep. So, she's getting an... appropriate bed for her in my room." Jennifer steered me toward a department store entrance, her nails digging into my arm. The scent of lavender air freshener mixed with the crinkling pad beneath my skirt—a constant reminder of its treachery. Brenda trailed behind, humming softly as she studied bedding displays. "Something colorful?" she suggested, tapping a bright pink comforter plastered with cartoon kittens. "Matches her dignity level." "Something... a little more... innocent--I think," Jennifer said. “She's still too juvenile for that!" She directed me toward a stark display of toddler bedding—primary colors, thick plastic-covered mattresses stacked beside waterproof sheets printed with grinning teddy bears. The vinyl scent was overpowering, stinging my nostrils. Brenda trailed her finger along a plastic sheet’s edge. "Thick enough to contain Niagara Falls. Practical." Her gaze slid to Cindy, who lingered near a pile of frilly throw pillows, her jaw clenched. "Oh, there!--" Jennifer pointed out some actual toddler beds with matching sheets, quilts and other things for kids like three or four years old. "I think we'll need Lena to lie in a few to make sure the size is long enough for her whole form...." Cindy rolled her eyes as Brenda grabbed my elbow, steering me toward a miniature canopy bed draped in pale yellow vinyl printed with chubby-cheeked ducks. "Up you go," Brenda ordered, her voice dripping with false sweetness. The plastic mattress crinkled violently beneath me as I slid onto it, the vinyl cold and slick through my thin skirt. My legs dangled awkwardly off the end, heels scraping the floor. Brenda leaned close, her jasmine perfume clashing with the chemical reek of waterproofing. "Comfy? Or should we try the crib?" Her laugh was a low hum. Jennifer snapped photos with her phone, the shutter sound like gunshots. "Perfect fit! Eloise will adore these duckies." "Barbara, you'd not doing anything. Go get a store clerk to take our order here. Brenda, you take Cindy and look for some extra sheets and blankets. She's obviously going to need other things, and actually, I'll get her little sister some sheets and blankets, too. I may not be taking direct care of her, but the blankets out in the old playhouse are going to be way too cold this winter." Barbara slipped away silently, her expression unreadable. Brenda shot Jennifer a challenging look but nudged Cindy toward a rack of fleece blankets. Left alone with Jennifer beside the toddler bed, I clenched my thighs against the slick vinyl. The crinkly incontinence pad shifted beneath me, its plastic edges digging into tender skin. Jennifer tapped her phone screen. "Smile for Eloise," she commanded, but her tone lacked malice—almost distracted. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the grinning duck prints. "You still have like thirty-five minutes before it's potty time, ten-thirty. Tell me the truth or you'll hate the punishment a lot worse. Are you about to pee, Lena?" Jennifer's whisper cut through the buzzing overhead lights. My thighs trembled against the cold plastic mattress, the crinkly pad beneath me suddenly dampening with sweat—or worse? The scent of vinyl sharpened, clawing at my throat. My bladder pulsed, a tight drumbeat of panic. I shook my head, desperate. "N-no, Jennifer." But the lie tasted sour. The pressure had built to a relentless ache, amplified by every shift on the slick surface. Brenda’s voice drifted from the fleece blanket aisle—a low murmur punctuated by Cindy’s sharp retort. Jennifer leaned closer, her perfume choking me. "I think you are lying," she leaned in and whispered. "But I gave you a chance to tell me, and so I can make the first time... a little less of a sting, but you insist on lying, so you better not pee if you are going to lie to me. There is worse than a spanking that can be done, you know." Jennifer straightened up with a cold smile as Barbara returned with a bored-looking clerk clutching a tablet. "We'll take this duck bed," Jennifer announced, tapping the plastic frame. "With the matching waterproof sheets and pillowcases. Also..." Her gaze flicked to me, still perched awkwardly on the tiny mattress. "...a crib mattress pad. The thickest one you have." Jennifer looked at some sheets and quilts, and she turned to me. "You don't want me to mess with your sister, and that's fine. But she needs warmer things to sleep on her bedding, so you pick the stuff... but it all comes from here." The clerk tapped her tablet, indifferent. Brenda reappeared with Cindy trailing reluctantly, arms laden with fleece blankets—one printed with frolicking lambs, another with dizzying polka dots. Jennifer snatched the polka dot one. "For Lena's sister." She tossed it toward me; I fumbled to catch it, the crinkle beneath my skirt sounding louder than the mall's chatter. The fleece smelled synthetic, like trapped dust. Brenda dropped a lavender blanket dotted with silver stars onto the pile—thin, almost sheer. "And this for Lena. Won’t hide much." Jennifer, however frowned at her. "Let's be practical," she said. "Lena needs to be warm at night. I can always check her in the mornings... and she is allowed to wet the bed. That's not against her contract." Jennifer pointed toward the toddler bedding section again. "No. We need the thickest quilted blankets, Brenda. Ones that soak up..." Brenda's expression tightened, but she didn't argue. Cindy wandered toward the toddler bed I was still perched on, her fingers tracing the vinyl-covered rail. "This stuff reeks," she muttered, wrinkling her nose. The sharp tang of plastic filled the air, mixing with the faint crinkle of the pad beneath my skirt. My legs trembled as Jennifer directed Barbara to grab several thick thermal blankets—bulky, practical things meant for cold nights, not humiliation. "What do you mean it stinks?" Jennifer asked. "Lena, get over here and let Brenda check your panties. You better be dry, little girl!" I slid off the toddler bed, my legs trembling as I approached Brenda. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder overhead, amplifying the crinkle of the plastic-backed pad with every step. Brenda’s fingers felt like ice through the thin skirt as she lifted the hem at the back. "Dry," she announced flatly, her gaze flicking to Cindy. "For now." "Okay, girls! You are missing the point in all of this, and I am getting tired of it. If Lena humiliates herself, then it needs to be HER fault, not your stupid making her nervous antics. She is being trained to be a servant, not just being tormented. Dad is trusting me to train her. The next person that tries to humiliate her without good cause, will wear the suggested diapers that were brought up earlier, got it?" Jennifer's voice sliced through the department store air, sharp enough to silence Brenda’s murmured retort. Cindy froze mid-step, her hand inches from a rack of ruffled pillowcases. Barbara’s bored expression tightened into wary stillness. The clerk tapped her tablet faster. "I swear, some people just don't know how to be ladies," Jennifer told the clerk pointedly. "At least Lena is trying!" As the clerk finalized the bedding order, Jennifer steered me away from the toddler section toward housewares. The crinkling beneath my skirt felt louder than the mall's chatter, each step shifting the plastic pad against tender skin. Brenda trailed silently, her earlier defiance replaced by a simmering tension. Cindy lingered near a display of floral china plates, her gaze distant. Barbara drifted toward bath towels, fingers tracing plush Egyptian cotton. "It's five minutes early, Lena, but you've been a good girl and trying to be dignified, so I'll give you a break this time," We stopped by the toilets again. "You have to be watched because that's not negotiable, but you can pee in the potty, if you can go, now." Jennifer propelled me toward the restroom entrance, her grip unyielding. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects overhead as Brenda trailed silently behind. Inside the echoing tiled space, Jennifer kicked open a stall door without glancing at Cindy or Barbara. "In." Her command bounced off the walls. I hesitated, the crinkling pad beneath my childish cupcake panties suddenly feeling damp—with sweat or something else? Brenda leaned against the sinks, her arms crossed. "Tick-tock," she murmured, though her gaze flickered toward the exit where Barbara and Cindy waited. Jennifer looked back at her with a frown. "She's my servant, the limo is mine, and this shopping spree is on my dollar, so shut your mouth, or you will miss the whole movie, got it?" My bladder felt like a clenched fist as Brenda scowled but stayed silent. Jennifer pushed me into the stall, her sharp perfume mixing with the antiseptic sting of the restroom air. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows on the graffiti-scarred metal door. "Hurry up," Jennifer hissed, her eyes hard. "And don’t forget—I’m watching." She nudged the stall door open wider with her foot, refusing privacy. Cindy leaned against the sink counter nearby, her gaze fixed on my trembling hands. I fumbled with the childish cupcake-patterned panties, the crinkly plastic pad cold against my skin. The adhesive tugged at the cotton as I peeled it away—still dry. Relief warred with dread. Positioning my skirt higher, I sank onto the chilly toilet seat, my muscles locked tight. Nothing came. Only the echoing drip of a faucet and Jennifer’s impatient sigh. "Try harder," she snapped. "Or we leave now, and you hold it till lunch." Cindy’s reflection shimmered in the polished chrome of a paper towel dispenser—arms crossed, jaw set. Brenda leaned against the tiled wall, tapping her foot rhythmically. Their silence pressed harder than Jennifer’s glare. The disinfectant stung my nostrils, mixing with floral perfume and something sharper—fear-sweat? My knees trembled, heels hovering above the damp floor. Focus, I begged my body. Just... let go. A feeble trickle finally escaped, pattering against porcelain, loud in the cavernous silence. Jennifer’s smirk returned. "About time." She leaned against the wall, actually smiling at Brenda as a taunt while she let me try to finish, it seemed. And she did look back at me from time to time and remind me, whatever I don't get out now, I better hold until lunch.... When I came back out, Barbara was impatiently tapping her foot. "Are we done playing baby? Let's get real shopping done." Cindy rolled her eyes, but Jennifer's expression tightened. "Fine. But Lena walks beside me from now on. Anyone touches her skirt, breathes too close—you're done." The scent of cinnamon wafted from a pretzel kiosk as we moved deeper into the mall. Shoppers jostled past, oblivious to the plastic crinkling beneath my skirt with each step. Brenda lingered near a perfume counter, spraying something aggressively floral onto a test strip—a petty rebellion

Chapter 8 And So… My New Life Begins It had been a hell of a day! Recuperating from spending the night terrified in a park bathroom that we weren't even supposed to be camping out in, and the door not really sheltering us from what might be out there, and the smell of the place... the fear causing me to wet my pants in the night, and everything.... Then, my old school bully finds me at the library with her dad, and together they take us to their car where my mom is waiting for me, and they take us to their place, to make us... presentable to meet this person that seems bent on putting mom in jail for dad's death even though none of us knew where he was, and it was the police that turned up telling us his car was found, and later, they again turned up to tell us he was dead! We were evicted... and had no really good place to clean up, so of course Jennifer's dad thought we were dirty. And Jennifer, was rubbing it in my face the whole time she was getting me presentable--even causing me on purpose, to have an accident. I can't prove it, but I am sure it was on purpose. So when we found ourselves back in the playhouse, where Jennifer played house when she was probably younger than eleven, we found a place that was warm against the wind, and had bed and blankets. It was better than the bathroom we spent the night in the day before, but both mom and I... well, mine was still being finalized, but we would both have contracts the next day to work for this family. Mom had no choice. She couldn't leave the estate, it seemed, or she'd be arrested on the spot. I... I really had no choice either because it was too open. Mom was in no position to make demands. So... I sold myself into servitude for the next five years, to make sure they did everything they could to keep my little sister, Nadia and mom together. "Lena, honey," mom whispered when she settled on one of the beds. "I really wished you had not amended the terms of your contract the way you did. You are... putting yourself at their mercy." "I know, mom," I crossed my arms. "But Mr. Greivere had you in a position you couldn't negotiate out of. You had no way to make sure you kept custody of Nadia, and she needs you more than anyone would need their mom right now. I had to make sure you both stayed together, no matter what." Mom sighed. She knew I was right. "Still, Lena, it's not your responsibility." "Someone has to take responsibility," I muttered. My arms stayed crossed. A dusty miniature tea set sat on a tiny shelf nearby. The porcelain dolls lining the walls looked more alive than I felt. Their painted eyes seemed to track every twitch I made. Outside, wind rattled the shingles on the playhouse roof. Inside, the sharp scent of pine cleaner mixed with mildew. Jennifer's dad had insisted on spraying down the space before we entered. "Suitable for guests," he'd said flatly. His eyes lingered on Mom's worn coat. "That someone is not a fifteen year old kid, that needs her mother as much as your ten year old sister does," mom whispered back not in a power struggle, just stating facts. "Then who?" I demanded my arms tightened across my chest knowing I was the elder sister. I wasn't a baby anymore, even if I acted like it at dinner and peed on purpose, just to get one over on my old bully. A sudden gust ripped loose a shingle overhead and slammed it against the playhouse’s tiny window. We both jumped. Nadia whimpered in her sleep on the adjacent bed, curling tighter under the thin blanket. Outside, the wind screamed through the estate’s skeletal trees like lost souls. Inside, the mildewed air tasted thick and sour, coating my tongue. Jennifer’s father’s pine cleaner lingered, stinging my nostrils. It wasn’t a home smell; it was the smell of disinfecting something unwanted. Mom moved over to the bed Nadia was sleeping in, and she whispered to me. "I'll sleep with her tonight." I shook my head. "They'll accuse you to peeing the bed, mom. Jennifer told the whole school last year that I must pee the bed and wet my pants all the time because... I smelled. Even today, you heard her tell her dad I peed the bed at night?" Mom’s shoulders slumped. Jennifer’s cruelty wasn’t new—just amplified now that her family held all the power. That whispered lie about me wetting the bed at dinner? Mr. Greivere had barely glanced up from his roast beef, but Jennifer’s smirk had been razor-sharp. I’d flushed crimson, my fingers digging into my thighs under the table. A tactical accident, I’d told myself then—revenge served lukewarm and embarrassing. Now, in this drafty dollhouse, the memory curdled in my stomach. Still, I embarrassed myself on my terms, and not on her terms. She had wanted me to stand up, and trip on purpose... and I knew what she really wanted was for my skirt to fall in a way that her dad would see the wet panties I wore... wet because Jennifer wouldn't let me use the toilet in good time, and when she finally let me, I was leaking and had to sit on the toilet in a hurry to not cause a puddle. It was a rule, not to wet enough to cause a puddle at their house. They were very clear about puddles causing a punishing reaction. Wind surged again, clawing at the playhouse walls. Nadia murmured in her sleep, twisting the thin blanket around her legs. Mom smoothed her hair, her fingers trembling faintly. "We’ll find a way, Lena," she breathed, but her eyes stayed fixed on the rattling windowpane. Outside, moonlight sliced through the skeletal trees, casting jagged shadows that danced like grasping fingers across the floorboards. The scent of mildew soured the air, mingling with the cloying chemical bite of pine cleaner—a reminder that we were stains to be sanitized. A porcelain doll tilted sideways on its shelf, glassy gaze fixed on me. I wanted to shatter it. There had been a note on the playhouse when we entered. The floor was to remain puddle free. If once was found, mom and I would be punished, not Nadia. According to my contract, Nadia couldn't be touched by them, so mom would be punished instead for anything Nadia did. No puddles on the floor, and we are not to remove our clothes outside the little house. There was no toilet in the house, or anything else that we were allowed to pee in, so we'd have to go to the big house, if we wanted to use the toilet--I supposed. Mom sighed. "Well, they talked about getting us up early tomorrow, so we should go ahead and go to sleep, honey." But sleep wouldn’t come. The wind kept screaming outside, and every time a branch scraped the roof, Nadia jerked awake with a whimper. Mom whispered reassurances, her voice thin and frayed. I stared at the crooked porcelain doll, its glass eyes catching slivers of moonlight. It watched me. *Judge me*. My bladder throbbed—a dull, insistent ache I’d been ignoring since about two hours after we were put out here. Jennifer’s smug face flashed in my mind: *No puddles*. The threat coiled in my gut like barbed wire. I finally decided I had to do something so I wouldn't make a puddle. I walked to the door, and looked back a moment to see mom cuddling Nadia, and then I walked out through the yard in... actually pretty comfortable pajamas for the summer months of the year, and towards the big house. The yard's shadows everywhere made me feel like eyes were watching from the dark as I nervously approached the looming great mansion from behind. The moon cast sharp, jagged shadows of skeletal trees across the frost-rimmed lawn. My bare feet registered every icy blade of grass, every sharp pebble digging into my soles. Wind whipped my thin pajamas against my skin, each gust carrying the wet promise of rain. And underneath it all—that relentless, tightening ache. Hold it, I ordered myself, clamping my thighs together with each step. Jennifer’s voice hissed in my memory: No puddles, Lena. Not one drop. I nervously knocked at the back door. It was a large place, so I did wait a bit. No answer came so I knocked again. Then a third time. Still, no response. I wasn't allowed to pull my pants down outside, and I wasn't allowed to puddle inside the little house. I had to go in there, but no one was answering. I took a deep breath, and went to open the door, but it was--locked! I had to go badly. I was holding myself tightly as I tried to think of what to do. Maybe... maybe I could go to the bushes? But the rule was clear: no wetting outside the toilet. And I wasn't supposed to remove my clothes outside. I hesitated, biting my lip. Already I felt a dribble leak out, dampening my thin pajama pants. Hold it, I told myself desperately. Just hold it. The back porch light clicked on abruptly. Jennifer stood silhouetted in the doorway, her face a mask of cruel amusement. "Lena," she drawled, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Out for a midnight stroll? Or..." Her eyes flickered down pointedly to where my legs were pressed together. "...did you forget where the toilet is?" Her smile widened. "Too bad Daddy’s locked the downstairs bathrooms after hours. Orders." "I need to go," I told her. "What do you want me to do? No puddles and no pulling my pants down outside, so what?" "No one said you couldn't pee outside," she smirked at me. "Only that you can't take your clothes off out there like an animal. You pee the bed anyway, like all the time, so what would it matter if you just pee your pants in the yard?" Her smile was smug. Hold it. Hold it. My thighs ached with the pressure. Jennifer’s words hit like ice water—she wanted me to leak in front of her. To give her proof. Wind sliced through my pajamas, carrying the scent of wet earth and impending rain. A tremor ran through me, and I felt warmth bloom against my leg—just a trickle, but enough to stain the thin fabric. Jennifer shook her head at me. "I think you're lying, just to get inside, to maybe steal something? You know that's why dad wants you and your mom out in the little house at night? We don't trust you, yet." "I really have to pee, Jennifer!" "You peed yourself easily enough at dinner. I think this is a good punishment for that. You just stand there, and wet yourself... like the baby you are... right in front of me. Like a good little servant girl. I'll daddy you didn't pee on the floor in the house. After all, I'll have watched you pee on the porch instead!" Her voice was a razor blade scraping bone. Wind whipped the thin cotton of my pajamas, colder than any bathroom tile. The porch light carved deep shadows under Jennifer’s eyes, turning her smirk into something predatory. Downstairs bathrooms locked? Orders? Lies. This was her game—her rules. My bladder screamed urgency; my muscles trembled on the edge of surrender. A hot trickle escaped, soaking the inseam of my pants, proof warm and shameful against my skin. Hold it. Hold it. But Jennifer’s stare pinned me like a specimen. "I don't have all night," Jennifer warned me. "If you don't pee within the next minute, I'll tell dad you must have made a puddle in the house and tried to clean it before anyone noticed it, or worse, you pulled your pants down outside, like a dog!" My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. Jennifer was deliberately twisting the rules—forcing me to wet myself while dressed, turning a natural need into humiliation. That familiar sting of helpless tears pricked behind my eyelids, but I blinked them back furiously. The cold porch boards beneath my bare feet felt like ice, amplifying the burning pressure deep inside. Another involuntary spasm sent a fresh wave of dampness spreading down my thigh; the patch was dark and unmistakable against the pale pajama fabric. "Okay...," she acted like she saw nothing. "No puddle on the porch, so you must be pulling your pants down in the yard," she started to close the door.... "Wait!" I choked out. My voice was barely above the wind’s shriek. "I’ll do it." The words tasted like ash. My bladder was a bursting dam—sharp agony radiating through my lower belly. My thighs were slick with dampness, muscles trembling uncontrollably. I couldn’t hold it. Not anymore. The warm stain spread downward, soaking the fabric clinging to my legs. She watched as the puddle spread at my feet, causing my pajamas to fully get wet. She seemed as if she could venture a taste or something, but had the discipline to keep herself still, not doing what she was tempted to do, whatever that temptation might have been. She looked into my eyes a few seconds after it happened, and just smirked. "Well, go to bed, then. If you change, then it will look like you peed on the porch, and then wet the bed, too. This way, I don't even have to tell him you peed on the porch. He'll think you had an accident, so you won't be in any trouble at all," and with that, she closed the door. I was frozen on the spot. My legs were dripping wet, and the wind was so cold that I was instantly freezing. I still had to go! She had tricked me! I hadn't gone... because I had been holding it for so long, and it wasn't all gone! Now, the accident I'd had wasn't enough. I knew... I was going to wet myself again, and badly, within minutes. I gathered myself together. I had no choice. She said one thing though... that I was allowed to wet my pants outside. No puddles and no pulling down my pants, and knowing I couldn't hold it anymore, I just started walking around the yard until I could get it to come out. It was slow going at first. My pajamas were already soaked and cold against my skin, making me shiver with each gust of wind. Every step was agony—the fabric chafed, the cold bit deep, and the relentless pressure built again, sharper this time. I moved away from the brightly lit porch, deeper into the moonlit yard where skeletal trees clawed at the sky. The wind carried the distant scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. Beneath my bare feet, mildew wet grass tickled my feet in dampness. Shadows pooled thickly beneath an ancient oak. There, hidden from the house’s judging windows, I stopped. My breath came in ragged puffs of vapor. Jennifer’s smirk burned behind my eyelids, her whispered taunts echoing louder than the wind. "Baby. Servant girl." I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on the searing ache in my belly. Slowly, tentatively, I relaxed. My body naturally squatting into a natural position for it, a new warmth blossomed low inside, spreading downward and around my bum in a hesitant trickle. It felt like betrayal—submission to her cruelty. But the relief was immediate, profound. The trickle grew steadier, transforming into a hot rush that flooded my pajama bottoms. Wetness streamed down my legs and pouring from my bum area because of the crouched position I was in, pooling warmly around my ankles before soaking into the thirsty earth below. No distinct puddle formed; just dark, spreading dampness merging with the dew-laden grass. The shame was a physical weight, crushing my chest. Yet underneath it, a bitter, molten defiance surged. Her victory. Not mine. Face red as a sunset, I walked into the dim house, looking at the floor, my pants soaked. "You... you'll have to wet your pants, outside, if you want to pee," I told mom. "The house is closed to us, and we are not allowed to make a puddle anywhere in the house, nor pull our pants down outside. I don't know how else they'd know either... unless they are going to check us in the morning to see if we are in wet pants...." Mom sighed, but nodded. "We'll figure it out, Lena." "I already did," tears sliding down my face. I peed my pants." Mom stared at my wet pajamas clinging to my legs, at the dark stain spreading across the crotch and thighs. She didn't recoil. Instead, a flicker of agonized understanding. "Oh, Lena," she breathed. Nadia stirred, whimpering at the sudden tension thickening the tiny space. "I... I just don't know what your rules are, but Nadia isn't to be touched, not if they expect me to sign the contract, so she can just wet the bed. It's what she knows and so we don't have to wake her and make it harder for her. Jennifer... wants me to make it seem I wet the bed. I guess you could fake like you thought I wet the bed in front of them, but I couldn't have you thinking I wet the bed. You had know the truth, mom," I whimpered a little and crawled up by her side, on the other side of where she was holding Nadia. Mom's arms pulled me tight against her chest, my damp pajamas soaking into her threadbare nightgown. The mingling scents of mildew and urine filled the cramped bed. Wind screamed overhead, rattling the playhouse walls. Nadia shifted, murmuring, "Cold..." With a sigh, I went to the bed I was supposed to use, and I got the top blanket and put over her. "There you are, baby sis," I whispered in her ear. "Mama and big sis got you." I sighed. "I've so tired, mom," I yawned. "I... don't think bad of me... I... I'm going to pee in the bed on purpose, like Jennifer wants." "Lena, no!" mom whispered sharply. "Don't give her that victory!" "Mom, you don't know her. I have to. I want Nadia to have her mom, and the only way to do that, is to do what Jennifer wants. It will be in the contract. You heard us discussing it at the table. I have to do it every night... unless Jennifer changes her mind, so I might as well start. Besides, there is no toilet for me until they come to get us in the morning." I crawled onto the bed and laid down, my wet pajamas chilling against the thin mattress. The mattress crackled faintly beneath me—old plastic protectors Jennifer’s father must have installed. The scent of stale urine and pine cleaner sharpened. I pulled the thin blanket over myself, ignoring the damp spread beneath me. Nadia murmured again, snuggling closer to Mom. Wind clawed at the roof, a relentless scrape against the shingles. A loose nail tapped rhythmically, like a metronome counting down my humiliation. The next morning came too early. Eloise entered without knocking, letting in a wedge of cold, damp air that carried the scent of wet grass and distant pine needles. Her sharp gaze swept the playhouse—lingering on the dark stain beneath me on the mattress, the soaked fabric clinging to my legs, the sour tang of urine thick in the cramped space. Nadia huddled against Mom’s side, blinking sleepily. Eloise’s expression didn’t change—no disgust, no pity. Just… assessment. She wore a crisp gray dress, her dark hair pinned back severely. Her hands, clasped loosely before her, looked capable and strong. "Ms. Miller?" Eloise looked up at my mom. "The head maid is looking for you. I am going to watch your girls, Lena until her contract is made, and Nadia until you get off work this evening." She frowned slightly as she looked at me. "Jennifer told the whole staff that you pee the bed at night, hon. Don't worry. We'll take care of it. That's part of my new job, change your pants and get you ready to meet your boss...." Mom looked hesitant to leave. "Lena..." "Go, Mom," I whispered, forcing a slight smile. "We'll be okay." Nadia clung tighter, burying her face in Mom’s shoulder so mom had to peel her off of her, and Nadia took her, trying to cuddle her to her side. Eloise waited silently as Mom reluctantly left, her worn nightgown vanishing through the door. The cold air she let in lingered. Eloise’s gaze returned to me—calm, penetrating. "Go ahead and undress, sweetie. I'll get your little sister undressed. We are all girls, so there is no shame. I used to wet the bed, at one time, too, so no shame." I stood slowly, my wet pajamas clinging cold and heavy. The air stung my skin. Eloise moved with practiced efficiency, helping Nadia out of her nightgown. Nadia whimpered, shrinking back against the wall. "It's alright, duckling," Eloise murmured, her voice softening as she wrapped Nadia in a thin towel. "Just a quick wash." She turned to me. Her eyes held no mockery, only a weary understanding that scraped raw against my shame. "Off with them, Lena." She gestured to my soaked pajamas. My fingers fumbled with the buttons, numb and clumsy. The damp fabric peeled away, releasing the sharp, stale smell into the tiny room. Eloise didn't flinch. She handed me a rough towel. "Dry yourself. Quick now. The cold bites." The towel scratched my skin, but the friction brought warmth. Behind me, she efficiently stripped Nadia’s bed, bundling the wet sheets with mine. Nadia watched, wide-eyed and silent, clutching Eloise’s offered towel around her shoulders. "Mr. Greivere expects you in the dinning room in an hour and a half," Eloise said, her tone flat. "He’ll have you sign your contract at that time after you read through it, and then you'll be served breakfast along with your sister and myself. And Jennifer..., she asked me to give you a note that I had to promise not to read." I sighed and reached out for the note after I had put on the dress from last night and a clean pair of panties, that were thick and cotton like the day before that Eloise brought for both my sister and me to wear. The note read: *Hope you enjoyed your leaky night. Remember—no puddles means no leaks. Tonight, prove it.* It wasn’t signed, but Jennifer’s malice bled through every word. My hands trembled as I crumpled the paper. Eloise’s gaze lingered on it, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Your contract draft," she said, handing me a thick document instead. "Read it carefully. Jennifer's dad amended it with some stuff the princess wanted." "It better not have changed that Nadia is not to be touched, that mom and Nadia stay together, and that I get... my two hours," I breathed as I reached for it. "I didn't read it, so I don't know," Eloise frowned. "I was just told to give it to you so you had time to see the terms. He said he didn't want to waste time reading what you already understood, so he wants you to know what's in it before you meet." I frowned. "I see." I sat on the cold wooden floorboards, leaning against the damp mattress frame—going over the contract. The drafty playhouse smelled faintly of stale urine—mine—mixed with mildew and the sharp scent of pine cleaner clinging to Eloise’s uniform. Nadia huddled beside me, shivering slightly in her clean underwear, clutching her doll. Eloise knelt by the small basin she’d brought, efficiently rinsing our wet sheets with cold water and a bar of harsh soap. The water splashed loudly in the quiet room. The contract had indeed been changed. Last night, he had told Jennifer that I'd get between seven and nine to "play," but it looked as though he had changed the time. He actually gave me three hours, from four in the afternoon until seven. Apparently, Jennifer wanted to oversee my baths at night, and the extra hour, was supposedly so I'd have time to do homework. It was... a trade, I supposed. I had to do my homework sometime, though in the contract, it also said that when I helped Jennifer with hers, I could do some of mine, then, too... whatever I was helping Jennifer with at the time. It said I will sleep where Jennifer wants me, too, so sometimes, that meant with my mom and sister in the little house as she started to call the playhouse thing that was now given to us as a room, but sometimes, it would also mean sleeping in her room, for which, we'd go shopping on this afternoon for... for a bed for me. I cringed. The beds in the little house were... well, they were beds, at least. No complaint there... but I shivered at what kind of bed she'd get me for her room. The door creaked open again, startling Nadia into clutching my arm. Eloise paused her washing, her knuckles whitening around the soap bar. Jennifer stood there, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smirk. She wore riding boots and tailored jodhpurs, her hair sleek beneath a velvet cap. "Morning, Lena." Her gaze raked over my clean dress, lingering pointedly where fresh panties peeked beneath the hem. "Sleep well? Or did you leak again?" I sighed. "I'll answer you after we sign the contract in thirty minutes, and not before. You don't own me, yet." Jennifer laughed softly, pushing off the doorframe. "Oh, Lena. Always so prickly." Her smile didn't reach her eyes as she strode toward Nadia, whose small hand tightened on my sleeve. "And how's our little duckling this morning? Dry?" Her fingertip traced a deliberate path along the hem of Nadia's own dress that Nadia had changed her into. "Our governess has already taken care of my little sister, thank you," I said pointedly. "The contract says you are not to touch Nadia, so unless you want me to throw this away in the garbage because you can't be trusted, I advise you to step away from Nadia, right now! Even when you have control of me...." I raced through the pages to find where I had seen it, and shoved it in her face. --Jennifer will stay at least ten feet away from Nadia at all times except when Lena gives her permission for a special situation, or when everyone, the whole staff and family are collected together at meal times to eat. Breach of this condition is grounds for Lena to walk away from said contract while her mother's contract will still stay valid for the full five years.-- "There," I pointed to it and shoved the wording in her face. Jennifer’s smirk vanished. Her hand snapped back as if burned. She stared at the clause, her face paling beneath its usual porcelain perfection. The scent of her expensive violet perfume clashed violently with the playhouse’s lingering acrid tang. Eloise remained utterly still by the basin, watching Jennifer with the unblinking focus of a hawk. Nadia pressed her face into my side, trembling. "... Given you had a right to change the contract while it was being drafted even after last night, I'll be adding one more condition of my own. When Nadia is in the little house, you are not to be. And if you expect me to be your little toy, I suggest you don't throw a fit over it with your dad. If I don't sign this contract, you don't get your little toy..., prin...cess....sss." Jennifer’s nostrils flared. The violet perfume turned cloying, thick in the cramped air. She snatched the contract draft from my hands, her knuckles white. "Fine." The word hissed between clenched teeth. "But remember—you’re signing away everything." She spun on her heel, boots echoing sharply on the floorboards, and slammed the door behind her. The playhouse shuddered. "I told you, Nadia. I won't let her near you, if I can help it, okay?" I said in a sigh of relief when she walked out with the contract in her hands. It didn't matter she had my copy. Mr. Greivere had to give me my own copy, or it wouldn't be a legit contract. One thing my dad taught me from all his years working from the time I was twelve. Kids need parents' consent to sign contracts, you read everything, and you have a right to request a copy and failure to comply meant the contract was voided. All terms that are not spelled out, are to be read in favor of the contracted party. I was so lucky... it was like daddy had anticipated something like this happening sometime in the future, and he prepared me for it. How boring it was when he taught me, and yet how valuable it was, now. Eloise finished wringing out the sheets, hanging them over chairs to dry. The damp fabric smelled faintly of pine soap and bleach, masking the underlying sourness. Nadia’s fingers slowly uncurled from my sleeve. "Okay, girls," she said though when he looked at me, there was something different in her look. It wasn't malice or anything mean. I... I wondered if it might even be a tad bit of respect. I couldn't tell. "It's time for breakfast. While we are in the yard," she hovered over Nadia. "Try to pee. You aren't allowed to pull down your panties out there, nor make any puddles in here or in the big house, but you are allowed to wet your panties in the yard, and you won't be allowed the toilet until after breakfast, trust me, little one." "What if she doesn't have to go?" I asked Eloise with a frown because I didn't like her even suggesting my little sister should just wet herself on purpose. Nadia tugged my sleeve anxiously. "Don't want to pee my pants," she whispered, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. "Don't want!" "I know, Nadia. I'm trying to find out what she'd do if you don't, honey." "It's not what I'd do. If I had my way..." Eloise murmured, her gaze darting toward the locked front door of the playhouse. She paused, rubbing her temple. "But the rules stand. No toilets before breakfast for servants' children. It's... house policy." Her shoulders slumped slightly, the crispness of her uniform at odds with the weary resignation in her voice. "If Nadia doesn't go outside, she'll likely have an accident during breakfast. And Jennifer will notice." Eloise met my eyes directly. "An 'accident' indoors—anywhere—means punishment. Jennifer wrote that clause herself yesterday." "Her punishment is NOT allowed to touch Nadia though. I will clear it up with Mr. Greivere, and if it says Nadia can be punished when she's not to be punished, I won't sign it." "No..., Lena. Not her. You. You will be punished for your sister's puddles. If you don't do as you are told, Nadia, your sister will have to wear diapers or worse!" Nadia started crying. "No, no, no, big sissy don't need no diapers!" "I know," Nadia patted her back and rocked her. "That's why you need to try to pee in the yard, so you don't have an accident in the house. If you can't... she has a right to punish big sissy for it." Eloise looked at me as she continued to explain. "They consider it neglect. Failure to supervise." She looked out the small, grimy window toward the main house. "Breakfast is formal—silver service in the dining room. If Nadia leaks... it'll be messy. Humiliating. For all of us." Her voice dropped lower. "Jennifer thrives on humiliation. I will be in trouble, too." I sighed. "She can pull up her dress," I told Eloise. "She's not taking anything off, if she holds her dress out of the way." Eloise nodded slowly. "The prohibition says disrobing. Holding her skirt... might pass." She lifted Nadia's chin gently. "You're going to have to be brave, duckling. Like your sister. Can you try?" I took Nadia's hand. "I'm doing my best. If Jennifer keeps me punished, I can't protect you when I can't see you. I need you to help me stay out of trouble when it is something you can control... like...," I sighed. "Peeing your panties, little sis. You'll have to do it." Nadia nodded, her small face pale but determined. Together we walked outside into the crisp dawn air. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling under the weak sun fighting through the storm's lingering gray clouds. Nadia lifted her skirt carefully, bunching the fabric around her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling. Nothing happened. "Can't!" she whimpered, shifting from foot to foot. Eloise looked at me and frowned. "You need to do it, too. Trust me. Besides if your sister sees you do it, she might feel better... that it's not... you know... naughty or something." I sighed. Eloise was right. I didn't lift my dress though. I just started to pee and even squatted so it would get on my butt, so Jennifer would be a little satisfied I peed in the yard like she wanted. "See, Nadia? It doesn't hurt." The warm wetness spread instantly through my clean cotton panties, soaking into the fabric and chilling against my skin in the brisk morning air. The damp patch darkened my dress from beneath, unmistakable. Nadia watched, eyes wide, then squeezed her eyes shut again. A moment later, a hesitant trickle darkened her own underwear, dripping down her legs onto the dewy grass at her feet. She whimpered softly. "Good girl. You want to keep big sis out of trouble as much as you can, baby," Eloise cooed at her. "Keep going, honey. All of it so you don't have an accident later, okay?" I held Nadia's hand as she finished, her legs trembling amid the wet grass. The scent of damp earth mingled with the sharp ammonia tang rising from us. Birds chirped overhead—a jarring cheerfulness against our humiliation. Eloise scanned the mansion’s upper windows, her jaw tight. "Hurry. Inside before we’re seen." She ushered us back toward the playhouse, her movements swift but tense. Nadia’s wet panties chafed against her thighs with each step; mine clung coldly. "We can hurry and get you two changed," Eloise pulled out some thing from behind the door I hadn't noticed before, two dresses. "Please change Nadia," I told Eloise. "There is no point me changing. Jennifer... she will know or there will be worse trouble. As long as Nadia is safe, that's all I care. Mr. Greivere thinks I pee my pants all the time anyway. I know Jennifer told him I pee myself at school all the time." Eloise hesitated, her fingers brushing the clean dresses. Nadia sniffled as Eloise gently peeled her wet underwear away. The cool air raised goosebumps on Nadia’s skin. “But your dress…” Eloise murmured, eyeing the damp stain spreading across my skirt. "That's the point," I blushed. "Jennifer will be too focused on my wet dress and will leave Nadia alone." Eloise nodded grimly. She quickly dressed Nadia in a clean, simple dress—soft blue cotton that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Nadia kept glancing at my damp skirt, her lower lip trembling. Eloise knelt, smoothing Nadia’s hair. "Your sister’s being brave," she murmured. "Just like you were."

Chapter 11 And I had to do it I looked up at Susan after a few minutes of her letting me rest in her lap, and I felt a lot better. I sighed and looked up at her. "So... now you know I poop my pants, sometimes?" I sighed. Susan smiled softly. "I knew when you came to us, Sweet Pea. Your mama told me when she asked if we'd take you for the summer. She knew you were dealing with a lot, and asked us to take care of you for a while so you'd get a bit of a break." I frowned. "She did?" Susan nodded, smoothing a stray curl from my damp cheek. "She told us everything—about the accidents at school, about someone bullying you, about your troubles with getting home dry all the time, and about how scared she was that pushing you too hard made it worse." She paused, studying my face. "She loves you something fierce, Caitlin. But she’s tired. And worried she’s doing it wrong." Her thumb brushed away a fresh tear I hadn’t felt falling. "That’s why she asked us to step in. Not to punish you. Just… to give you space to breathe." "I thought... I mean... she's always mad at me when... I do stuff," I shook not sure if I understood her at all. “I mean, I know I wasn't one of her favorites. And after the other day, and Erine told us, and then mom and dad confirmed... I wasn't even born from mama. I was... a mistake daddy had. He saw another woman when Greinne was in mama's tummy!” Susan's arms tightened around me, a fierce protectiveness radiating from her stillness. Outside, Sean’s tractor growled steadily across the fields, a deep vibration humming through the floorboards beneath Susan’s stool. The kitchen smelled of lemons and bleach, sharp and clean against the lingering warmth of blueberry sauce from breakfast. Susan didn’t react with shock or pity—just a slow exhale that ruffled my hair. "Oh, Caitlin," she murmured, her voice thick. "Birth stories aren’t about mistakes. They’re about people trying their best in messy moments." She shifted me gently to look into my eyes, her own glistening. "Your mama—the woman who raised you—chose you. Every day. Changing diapers, teaching you to ride a bike, worrying over fevers in the night. That is love. Blood or not." I shivered from that explanation. I guess I just keep everything inside for now. Maybe I misunderstood daddy and mama. I wasn't sure, now. I didn't remember her teaching me to ride a bike, but maybe Susan was trying guess at everything she did do for me. I don't think even Greinne had a bike, so.... Yeah, makes sense she never taught me. Maybe she was changing my diapers. What happened to my other mama, though? Did she not want me because I'm stupid? Did mama worry when I was sick? I wasn't really sure, now. Susan must have seen my confusion because she squeezed my shoulder softly. "Come on," she said, lifting me off her lap. "Let's finish these towels. Then we'll check on Sean." I smiled trying to brave though it. I guess I'll just be wetting my pants a while longer on purpose and now that Susan found some pooped in panties, and it seems mama told her I was doing it, I guess I have to do that, too, now. Susan noticed my smile didn't reach my eyes. She handed me a clean washcloth without a word, plunging her own hands back into the soapy basin. The water sloshed softly against the ceramic edges, releasing bursts of lemon scent with each movement. We scrubbed in silence for several minutes—me rubbing circles on faded towels, her fingers working stains from my underwear with surprising care. Outside, Sean's tractor rumbled closer, the diesel thrum vibrating through the soles of my shoes. Susan and Sean were a lot nicer than daddy and mama though. For the last couple of days, they didn't yell at me, call me stupid, troublemaker, or even pee pee pants. They cared every time they thought I was wet, and changed me immediately. I couldn't understand how mama could say she loved me... if practical strangers would change my pants when I peed, but she yelled at me like... I wanted to wet my pants? Susan began humming an unfamiliar tune, low and soothing. Her hands moved rhythmically through the water, turning stained fabric clean again. "Buddy Holly," she answered softly when I glanced up, noticing my curiosity. "Sean says it sounds like rusty gears, but I think it's... hopeful." Her gaze lingered on mine. "Like spring after a long winter." "Yeah, I guess it does sound like that," I politely agreed with her. Besides, it kind of did. I continued to try to get through my own work, cleaning up the wash clothes, and then we took the laundry to clothes line. "Sweetheart, can you do me a favor?" Susan asked as we put the baskets down by the clothes line. "It's kind of a struggle for me to bend down all the time. Can you get the clothes for me, so I can pin it up?" I looked up at her wondering how that was really helping, but I also saw the line was a little high, and I would struggle to hang anything on it. “Of course, Aunt Susan,” I said softly, grabbing a damp towel draped over the laundry basket’s edge. The rough texture scratched my palms as I passed it to her. Susan clipped it onto the line with quick snaps of wooden pins, the fabric billowing like a sail in the warm breeze. “That’s my girl,” she murmured, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Below, Sean’s tractor churned past the barn, kicking up dust that glittered in the sunlight. The smell of turned earth mixed with lemon soap and wet cotton—a strange, comforting blend. My stomach tightened. I have to do it soon, I thought, dread pooling cold in my chest. Before lunch. Before they realize I’m faking. We continued hanging the clothes, and the sheets I peed on in the night, and Susan gave a great sigh as I grabbed up the basket for us to go back inside. "So, Caitlin, what do you say we start lunch?" Susan asked as we walked back toward the kitchen door. "I'm thinking grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup." Her voice was casual, but her eyes lingered on my face, noticing the tension around my mouth. "Okay," I said trying really hard to sound normal, but trying to get my body to cooperate and to poop my pants... soon. Inside the kitchen, Susan pulled out bread and cheese. The tangy scent of cheddar mixed with the lingering lemon soap smell. I stood frozen near the table, fists clenched, concentrating so hard sweat beaded on my upper lip. Do it now, I urged silently. Before Sean comes in. As I stood there, hands balled into fists, pressing on the table, and Susan was at the stove preparing the stuff to make the lunch, I shivered. I didn't like this at all. Susan was right there, making me nervous, not that she was doing anything, but doing it front of her.... It felt... wrong. I tried to relax, but my body didn't want to cooperate. Instead, I walked slowly toward the door, pretending I needed to check something outside. Maybe I could do it out there? Then come back in and tell her? That felt less... bad. "Caitlin?" Susan's voice cut through the silence as she slid butter across bread. "Everything alright?" "Um... yeah," I looked back around from the open door so she could see me. "I just thought I forgot something outside...." Susan slid the buttered bread onto the hot skillet, the sizzle loud in the quiet kitchen. "Alright, honey," she said without turning, her voice easy and calm. "But come eat soon. Soup’s warming." Her trust felt like a warm blanket—and another layer of guilt settling heavy on my shoulders. Outside, the tractor’s rumble faded toward the far pasture, leaving only birdsong and the wind rustling through the maple tree by the porch. Now. It had to be now. I went around a corner of the house, so there were no windows looking my way, and I made sure to listen for the tractor—only listening for it, still made it hard to go. What if he came up on me, and caught me? Then, I remembered Susan's words: "You don't owe anyone shame." Maybe... maybe she wouldn't mind? So I closed my eyes and tried to relax my muscles the way I did at home when mama made me. It felt awful—like betraying Susan's kindness—but I pushed past the lump in my throat and squeezed. The sensation was immediate—warm, heavy, pressing against the thick cotton of my underwear before seeping through to my shorts. The mess clung to my skin, thick and cloying, as I pressed my forehead against the cool, weathered wood of the farmhouse siding. Birds chirped overhead, oblivious. A dragonfly darted past, its iridescent wings catching the sunlight. The smell hit me first—sharp and earthy, cutting through the clean lemon scent still lingering on my hands. Shame flooded my cheeks hotter than the midday sun. Moments later, I felt pee hissing through the caked on mess and the underneath of my shorts running down my legs and pouring out on the ground, a muddy brown color of water…. Just as I thought it was done, Another lump pushed pass and into the first mess in my panties… pushing and causing my panties inside, to start sagging. I shivered as I finished the deed. Tears ran down my cheeks, and wouldn't stop, not just because I'm a crybaby about it, and sometimes, I am, but because I am doing this... on purpose... even after Sean and Susan being so nice to me, and I hated the feel of it, and I knew Susan wouldn't let me clean it up on my own. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself against the house. Dust motes danced in the sunbeam slanting across my shoes. The tractor’s drone grew louder—Sean was circling back toward the barn. Panic tightened my chest. I had to go inside. Now. My legs felt shaky as I pushed off the siding. Each step squelched softly. I wasn't sure if it would look more like an accident if I told Susan, or if I let her discover it. It had to be an accident though, or daddy would throw me out for sure at the end of the summer. The tractor’s roar grew louder—Sean was heading towards the barn now. Panic seized me; I couldn’t let him see me like this. I shuffled toward the kitchen door, the mess inside my shorts shifting with each step, warm and heavy against my thighs. The screen door creaked as I pushed it open, the smell of melted butter and frying bread hitting me alongside the shameful odor clinging to me. I tried to stay just out of the way, so neither Susan would see me, nor Sean when he came into the yard closer to the house, but I had to act or decide soon, or one of them would see... and I need it to look like an accident. How do I make it seem like an accident. They haven't seen me poop my pants, yet.... Susan slid two golden-brown sandwiches onto plates, her back still turned. "Soup's ready when you are, sweet pea," she called out, her voice light. The rich aroma of tomatoes and basil swirled with cheddar—comforting smells that twisted my stomach. I hovered near the doorway, the damp heat against my skin making me shiver. Maybe if I just sat in the chair, if I could get there before she saw me, then it will look like I did it sitting there... and if I just eat... like I didn't notice.... That could work? I waited for Susan to go to the fridge to get juice or something and I slipped into the chair hoping she didn't notice me yet. The wooden chair felt cold beneath my thighs as I slid onto it, the mess pressing uncomfortably against me. I kept my eyes fixed on the table’s grain—old oak, worn smooth in places. Please don’t smell it, I begged silently. Susan turned from the stove, two steaming bowls in her hands. Her smile faltered as she approached the table, replaced by a soft frown. She set the soup down slowly, her gaze drifting to my lap, then snapping back to my face. The sharp, unmistakable odor of feces mingled with tomato soup, thick in the warm kitchen air. Her nostrils flared slightly. "Caitlin," she said gently, kneeling beside my chair. Her hand hovered near my knee, not touching. "Did you have an accident?" Her voice held no accusation—only concern that scraped raw against my guilt. I couldn’t meet her eyes. Tears blurred the steam rising from my bowl. The tractor’s roar cut off abruptly outside; silence fell, heavy as the shame clinging to my skin. Footsteps thudded on the porch steps. Sean’s shadow filled the doorway. Susan’s head snapped up. "Sean, honey—" she began, but he was already striding toward us, his work boots tracking fresh soil across the linoleum. He stopped short, nostrils flaring as the pungent smell registered. His gaze darted from Susan’s worried face to my trembling hands clenched in my lap. I braced for anger—the sharp tone Daddy used when he called me "filthy" or "hopeless." "Oh, no, baby--!" he walked right over to me, looking at Susan. "Hon, you just maybe try to keep lunch warm. This mess is going to require... a bit more attention, and I know you were with her all morning. I'm sorry I couldn't take her yet. I still have to mend that fence before it's safe for her out in the farm fields." Susan nodded. "Of course, Sean." She gave me a reassuring smile as she squeezed my shoulder. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just let Uncle Sean help." I shivered. I loved it when he picked me up, but he'd never picked me up like this... not like this.... He held me when I peed, but not with poop in my pants. I felt tears watering my cheeks again as he leaned over and picked me up. "That's a good girl," he cooed at me as he started to carry me in his arms, against his chest, as if my messy pants didn't bother him at all? He called me good girl, but the guilt… I didn’t feel like a good girl. I felt wicked, dirty, and like trouble, just like daddy would call me. His arms felt solid as oak beams as he lifted me, holding me close against his flannel shirt. The stained fabric of my shorts pressed warm and heavy between us, but Sean didn’t flinch. "Easy does it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear. I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed cotton, engine grease, and freshly turned earth—nothing like the shameful odor clinging to me. His boots thudded steadily down the hallway toward the bathroom. Behind us, Susan quietly moved plates aside, the scrape of ceramic against wood echoing softly. In the small bathroom, Sean lowered me gently onto the closed toilet lid. The cool plastic seemed to go right through my shorts, making me shiver. He crouched, his calloused hands resting on his knees. "Alright, Sweetie," he said, his eyes meeting mine. They held no disgust—only a quiet, steady warmth. "Accidents happen. Remember what Susan said?" When I nodded, tears spilling, he patted my knee. "Good girl. Now, let’s get you cleaned up." He reached into the cupboard beneath the sink, pulling out a plastic basin. The cheerful yellow clashed with my dread. His movements were unhurried as he filled the basin with warm water at the sink, the splash echoing in the small space. The scent of lavender bubble bath joined the steam as he poured it in—a soft, floral cloud that fought the shame hanging thick in the air. "Lean on me," he instructed gently, guiding me to stand. His hands were firm but tender as he peeled my soiled shorts and underwear down my legs. The cool air hit my skin, making me gasp. He didn’t comment on the mess, simply dropping the ruined clothes into a waiting bucket. "Step in," he murmured, steadying me as I lowered into the water. The warmth enveloped my legs, soothing the tremors I hadn’t noticed. Kneeling beside the tub, Sean took a washcloth and began cleaning my skin with slow, methodical strokes. The roughness of the cloth against my thighs felt grounding, not harsh. Water sloshed softly as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. Outside, the wind rustled the bathroom curtain, carrying the distant caw of crows. My tears slowed as I watched him—the way his work-roughened hands moved with such care, rinsing the cloth again and again in the basin until the water clouded. He hummed that same tune Susan had earlier, the hopeful melody a quiet anchor. When he finished, Sean wrapped me in a thick towel smelling of sunshine and lemon soap. He lifted me onto the closed toilet lid again, the cool porcelain seeping through the terrycloth. "Stay put, sweetie," he said softly, ruffling my damp hair. I watched as he gathered the soiled clothes, dropping them into a bleach-filled bucket without a flicker of disgust. The chemical tang bit the air. He ran fresh water into the basin, scrubbing it clean with brisk efficiency before stowing it away. Every movement was practical, unhurried—a rhythm as steady as his tractor’s engine. "Let's take you to the room and get you some clean clothes?" he whispered. "You have plenty of clean things now, baby." "But... only--can I have one of your shirts. Not a washed one, maybe the one you are wearing now?" "Baby, the one I'm wearing now is too dirty for that. While you are not dirty, you can't wear pissy clothes, sweetheart, and your peed got on me while I was carrying you. You don't think I'd carry you in a way that might result in a fall, do you?" "No, sir." "Well, how about we get you dressed, and then we'll see if Susan left anything unwashed you can grab to wrap yourself in afterwards. That sound okay?" "Okay," I sighed not hopeful she didn't wash everything. Sean lifted me easily, towel and all. Outside the bathroom door, Susan stood waiting, holding soft blue sweatpants, clean thick pantie, and a clean t-shirt—mine from home. The scent of grilled cheese drifted down the hall, suddenly unbearable. My stomach clenched. Susan’s gaze met Sean’s; a silent understanding passed between them. She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Lunch can wait," she murmured. "Let’s get you cozy first." In the guest room, Sean set me down on the quilt-covered bed. Susan knelt, helping me into the sweatpants with gentle tugs. The fabric felt scratchy against my scrubbed-clean skin. "There," she whispered, smoothing the hem. I stared at my knees, avoiding her eyes. The shame still sat heavy in my chest, colder than the wet towel Sean had taken away. Susan cupped my chin, tilting my face up. Her thumb brushed my cheekbone. "Deep breaths, honey. You’re safe here." Sean returned holding a flannel shirt—soft-worn blue plaid, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The faint scent of diesel and hay clung to it. "Found this in the mending pile," he said, draping it over my shoulders. The fabric swallowed me, warm and smelling like him. I buried my nose in the cuff, inhaling the earthy musk. For a heartbeat, the guilt eased. Susan knelt, buttoning the shirt over my t-shirt. "Perfect fit," she murmured, her fingers lingering at my collar. Outside, a cow mooed, long and mournful. Sean’s hand settled on my head—a solid, grounding weight. "Hungry yet?" he asked. The question felt like a lifeline. I nodded, clutching the too-long sleeves. Susan and Sean helped me to my feet, and we all walked hand in hand down to the kitchen, once again, to try having lunch. "I think we should take Cait after lunch," Sean suddenly told Susan something cryptic that perhaps they had talked about out of my ear shot. "Sean, what about the rest of the work...?" "It can wait. I mean, you're worried about her, aren't you?" We were just getting into the kitchen. "I know you wanted to finish the fence," Susan replied softly, setting a fresh grilled cheese in front of me. Steam rose in lazy curls. "But the cattle can manage another day behind the temporary wire." "Just what I was thinking," Sean sighed. "This baby girl isn't getting better by being ignored." I froze mid-bite, tomato soup dripping off my spoon. They knew. The realization crashed over me—cold and suffocating. Susan’s hand covered mine on the tablecloth, her thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. "Eat," she urged softly. "You need your strength." "Baby," Sean pulled me into his lap to eat with him. "You need to understand something. And you need to eat while I talk." I gulped. "Everything you are going through right now? None of it is your fault. You are suffering, honey. You aren't making trouble, and you are no trouble to Susan and me. An accident, if you don't want it to happen, even if... you are scared and making it happen... it's still an accident, baby." Sean’s voice was a low rumble beneath my ear as I sat stiffly on his lap. His arm encircled my waist, holding me securely against the steady beat of his heart. Across the table, Susan stirred her soup, her eyes never leaving mine—soft, understanding, unbearably kind. The smell of tomato soup and melted cheese suddenly felt suffocating alongside Sean’s words. He dipped a corner of my grilled cheese into the bowl, holding it to my lips. "Eat," he murmured. When I hesitated, trembling, his other hand smoothed my hair. "Please." "So... you know...? That I... I did it... because... I had to?" I asked. They exchanged looks. "It's okay, baby," Sean whispered. "We don't need to talk about that right now, baby. I just want you to know, we understand. You are having trouble, not giving trouble, baby." Susan reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "Eat a little, sweetheart. For us." Her voice cracked. The grilled cheese felt like ash in my mouth, but I forced myself to chew. Sean’s heartbeat thudded against my back, a steady drum chasing the frantic flutter in my chest. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the kitchen window, carrying the distant drone of the tractor Sean had abandoned. He shifted me gently, holding the spoonful of soup himself now. Warm broth touched my lips. I swallowed mechanically, the heat a stark contrast to the chill creeping up my spine. They eventually got me to finish the lunch, and then Susan looked up at Sean. "Hon? Put her in the car? I want to go get a bag packed, just in case." He nodded, lifting me gently from his lap, careful not to jostle me too much. The flannel shirt draped loosely around me, smelling faintly of sweat and hay and tractor grease... and something else... him. Comforting. Almost.

Chapter Seven How A Heart of Contracts Can Be… Played As the young maid, Eloise had her hands on Nadia's shaking shoulders, her brown hair escaping the tight bun she normally had to wear her hair in, and her green eyes staring across from me, Mr. Greivere sat back his fingers touching on ends, again. He waited for a moment for the aura of the retreating representative from Wedgewig to disappear. I shivered as the smell from my own lap started to make itself aware... a reminding of the peeing accident I had had maybe an hour or two earlier, one where Jennifer pushed me on the toilet to pee in my panties as she coldly watched me pee them, and then she made me wear them since... knowing we were going into an important meeting in front of her strict father, no less. I felt the smell causing my face and neck to burn with embarrassment, though the fabric in the thick cotton panties was cooling. I wasn't sure, but I'd bet that by this time, the wetness had probably soaked through the dress. I know it would have, had I been wearing a regular one, but this thing they had me in... had so many layers... I should be grateful if somehow, the layers kept my shame hidden. "Well, dramatic that was," Mr. Greivere finally spoke a measured word as we all seemed to take a breath and think about our own places around the table. "Eloise, take little pee pee pants to the staff bathroom in the kitchen and get her as cleaned up as you can there, but don't take all day. I want dinner now, not in three hours." Jennifer smirked at me. I avoided her gaze. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rising, and an overwhelming emotion from inside to strike at her emanating from deep inside my chest. This girl, that had tormented me at school for the last two years--now my boss--seemed to be doing everything she can to provoke me, and I knew the consequences would not be good if I let her. My mom faced prison. My sister faced foster care where she would know no one, and it wasn't fair to them that our only way out of the mess created by dad's disappearance and then death, was for my tormentor's family to offer 'shelter' however crude that shelter may be. "Don't tell me you peed your pants again, already?" Jennifer whispered. I felt my fists tighten at my sides, my face tightened, and my eyes felt like they were wanted to pop out and assault her on their own, but somehow, though I shook with the effort, I kept control; knowing that I'd pay for any little retaliation that I might make. Through gritted teeth, I whispered tightly. "No. You are making me sit in wet cold panties. If it's leaked through, it's your fault.... I don't even have to go right now." She smiled and stood as Mr. Greivere motioned at the table at large. "Come, everyone, sit a little closer. Larissa, sit next to Shawna, please. Jennifer, sit next to me, and Lena you next to Jennifer. When little miss pee-pee pants gets back, we'll start dinner." I turned down his way and glared at him. He had not right to make fun of a scared ten year old no matter what small infraction she had done in response to it. I was sitting in wet panties myself, and if the people that made her 'presentable' was anything like Jennifer had been to me, then of course she peed. She likely had no chance to go to the bathroom, and as scared as she was, she probably couldn't even ask. Mr. Greivere's sight was drawn my way, probably because of the daggers that were in my eyes for him at the moment. He only looked a moment, but there was no reaction to the way I looked at him. It was like water off a duck's back, the way he turned to my mother, and he very pleasantly turn to her own contract making. "I am sure you want a contract for your own work, then?" his words were deliberate and simple. Mom's smile tightened a little in nervousness. "You saw what Mr. Wedgewig is trying to pin on you and your recently deceased love?" Mom's lips tightened more. She was no longer smiling at all. Her own body was shaking a bit. "So...?" she barely voiced the word. "So..., I am going to help you, Miss Miller. But you need to understand the gravity of the conditions you are here under. You cannot just freely leave the estate. To do so, would put you in jeopardy of being arrested on the spot. You have gathered that much, I'd assume?" She shook but nodded her head slowly. Some of the hair they had somehow gotten to balance on top of her head had seemed to become limp with the gravity of our situation, and drooped down in her eyes. The brown wavy strands some with grayness mixed in, seemed to exaggerate her worry. "You will need a job to pay for things that are not being offered as a matter of course by myself and our staff here. You'll want to have Lena and Nadia to have nice things for school when that starts next week. You'll want to get some toys because I'm sure you had to leave the children's things all at your other place when you were evicted?" Mom looked up, pushing a mass of her hair out of her face to see him properly. "We are grateful for what you are doing. But if I can't even leave your estate, how do you expect me to find a ...," but she went quiet as the man frowned at her. "That's what I'm telling you. You work for me now. You did understand in the car, right? That while I want Lena to be my daughter's first employee to teach her how to run her empire for when I pass it to her, that I had also had plans to put you to work as well?" Mom frowned. "I... I thought you were just sounding it out with me. I didn't realize that you meant it...." "Well, I did. You really have no choice, do you? Like was pointed out, you can't leave to get a job anywhere else, or you'll be arrested on the spot, and your children will likely go... well, to the state. Which is one of the terms of the contract I'd like Lena to hear...." Mom shivered as she watched him with eyes like a rabbit eyeing a hawk about to strike. I felt a shiver down my spine as I started to sit, taking the moment as I sat, to feel my bum to make sure nothing had leaked through my wet panties out to the outside. It was dry. I had done it in pretense of adjusting the dress to sit hoping no one would notice. "I can keep your children together," Mr. Greivere sternly looked into mom's eyes. "Even if the police come here with a warrant, it is possible for me to keep them together." Mom looked over at me with pleading eyes. I think she would have done anything to protect us, and especially Nadia being just ten years old, going into fifth grade, she was so scared and fragile. Mom had to think of her. I had to think of her. I nodded my head fully trusting and supporting my mother. "What do you want to do, Mr. Greivere?" "It's simple, really. You are their mother, so for as long as we can keep the police at bay, you will stay with your daughters in the... uh... arrangements I have put you in. But you need to sign a guardianship form, making me their... Godfather. As such, I can take them if anything happens to you, and you will not have to worry about them having a place to stay, food in their bellies, and some of the other common things they are used to having such as toys and books to occupy their free time." Mom looked back at me, her hands on the table, clearly clenching as she felt a strong wave of something keeping her there, as though the decision was forced on her in the moment, a decision that should have been thought about for months, but it was there, facing her now. "Mom, I'll...," I started to whisper. "Child, hold your tongue," Mrs. Greivere looked cold and stone faced at me. "Children do not get in the middle of adult affairs." She didn't yell, rather, she whispered it, but her whisper carried across the table so it was evident that she had scolded me just the same. Mom looked down at her hands, which were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white. I could see the tiny tremors running through her fingers. The scent of roast duck wafted in from the kitchen, rich and savory, but it couldn't mask the stale odor of my own humiliation clinging to me—a damp, acrid reminder beneath layers of fabric. Next to me, Jennifer smirked, her fingers drumming lightly on the polished mahogany table, the sound barely audible over Mr. Greivere's steady breathing. His eyes were fixed on Mom, unblinking, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "The guardianship is non-negotiable, Larissa," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Sign it, and your daughters stay together. Refuse..." He trailed off, letting the unspoken threat hang heavy in the air. Mom flinched as if struck. I wanted to scream at him, to rip that smug look off Jennifer’s face, but fear for Nadia—alone in that kitchen somewhere—locked my voice in my throat. Mom didn't say 'if' when she responded. Her voice trembled in the same shakiness that was evident to everyone at the table. "When I sign it, what is to keep you calling the police and having me taken away at that very moment?" she looked down at the table. "What keeps me from calling them right now?" Mr. Greivere asked. "I can easily track down Lena and get her back. You know I can. But if you don't sign it, I will have no obligation to track down Nadia, will I? So she'll go through the foster system lost to her mother and her sister, being completely alone. However, if you do sign it, it would be a contract, and I'd make sure someone on staff would keep her safe. I think Eloise is actually growing fond of her anyway. She'd probably help her." I leaned forward, my damp dress clinging uncomfortably to my thighs as I slid toward the edge of my seat. Jennifer’s smug grin widened; she traced a manicured nail along the rim of her water glass, the faint *ping* cutting through the thick silence. The roast duck scent had grown overpowering, mingling nauseatingly with the lingering smell of my shame—a sour, intimate intrusion in this opulent dining room. Mom’s knuckles were bone-white, her breaths shallow and rapid. After a few tense moments, Mr. Greivere smiled. "So, then, we have a deal?" Mom nodded in defeat, her shoulders slumped a bit though she was still shaking. "So, does that mean that you can now make Nadia work, too, though I've tried to keep Lena from having unreasonable pressures even on her?" Mr. Greivere shook his head and smiled. "No. Nadia... she will just be looked after by Eloise when you are unavailable. She won't have to work. And yes, Lena, however, will have the kind of contract Jennifer wants her to have, unless--you want to stop this now?" I could see the indecision in mom's face. I tried to mouth at her. "It's okay. I'll keep an eye on Nadia when I can, too" but I wasn't sure mom could read my lips, and I didn't dare raise my voice. Eloise brought Nadia, her eyes watery, back to the seat next to mom. Mom reached out and pulled Nadia close, whispering reassurances while keeping her gaze locked on Mr. Greivere. Her voice was barely audible over Jennifer’s low chuckle. "Fine. I’ll sign it." The words felt like shards of ice scraping her throat. Mr. Greivere’s smile spread slowly, shark-like, as he slid a thick document across the table. Its crisp edges caught the chandelier light, gleaming like a trap. Nadia buried her face in mom’s side, muffling a sob. "Dinner will take some time," Jennifer whispered to me. "In a bit, and you better not pee again for real, or else, especially not while we are eating. That's gross. But after we've had dinner, just before we part ways, you will go along with what I do... or your sister... foster care?" I gulped. Jennifer's mint gum was on her breath and was poison in my face as she breathed her conditions to me, her silk yellow blondness framing her face like the hood of a cobra as her venomous words sank deep. "You will get up from the table when we are dismissed... and you will... accidentally trip. And then... you will accept whatever consequence comes from that. Do I make myself clear?" I nodded tightly, my stomach churning with the roast duck threatening to reappear. Across the table, Mr. Greivere was handing Mom a heavy fountain pen, its gold nib catching the chandelier light like a guillotine blade. Mom’s hand shook as she reached for it, her knuckles still stark white against the mahogany. Nadia clung to her side, small fingers digging into Mom’s sleeve, her eyes wide and darting from face to face. The rich scent of the duck and rosemary potatoes was now cloying, thick as fog, mixing with the persistent dampness clinging to my underthings—a sharp, acidic reminder of Jennifer’s earlier cruelty. Mom's shaking hand signed the contract, and it happened so fast, it didn't look like she had read it at all. There were three parts of it to sign, and I think there was more than the mention of guardianship in that... because... well, how many papers would you need, just for guardianship to spell it out? I shivered. Mom had definitely signed a lot more than she intended to... I was sure of it. "Good," Mr. Greivere was more eager to get the papers back than the expensive pen that mom used to sign with. "Now that's settled, I think we should be served." And he picked up a tiny bell that rested just at the head of the table, and he gave it a wiggle calling people out of the shadows around us, opening tin covered plates of more food than I had ever seen at one meal, and that included at Thanksgiving feasts! Jennifer leaned close again, her breath minty cold against my ear. "Remember your trip." Her whisper was silk over steel. I clenched my thighs together, the damp cotton chafing skin already raw from humiliation. The clatter of silverware on fine china echoed like gunshots as servants laid out steaming plates—rosemary-crusted lamb, glazed carrots glistening like amber, potatoes dauphinoise layered thick as sin. My stomach twisted; the rich aromas couldn't mask the sour tang rising from my own lap. Nadia picked at her bread roll, crumbs scattering like broken promises. Eloise hovered behind her chair, a silent sentinel. "Oh, dear me, where are my manners?" Mr. Greivere sighed and motioned at Eloise. "Girl, you're position in the house is no longer a simple handmaiden. You may sit. Your contract will be drawn up soon. You will be responsible... for the two new household members of the Greivere estate as a governess, and as such, you eat with your charges, miss." Eloise blinked as she looked at him and then mom and then Nadia and me. Her cheeks flushed softly as she pulled a chair out from the corner and scooted it next to Nadia. Mr. Greivere tapped the bell again sharply. "Well, Eloise, sit. You're officially promoted, and that means you sit at the table. You're one of us now." When Eloise sat next to mom, that's when it really clicked in my head. Eloise wasn't an adult, for sure. She wasn't even older than me, and if she was, probably only by a year or so. I glanced over at Mr. Greivere. "When you are not at work, Lena, and when your mom is busy, you will answer to your new governess as well." Jennifer snorted softly into her water glass. Eloise’s cheeks flamed as she clumsily unfolded her napkin onto her lap, fingers trembling. Her eyes darted between Nadia’s tear-streaked face and mine. She couldn’t be older than sixteen—barely more than a child herself. The fine porcelain felt alien beneath her calloused hands. Mr. Greivere’s smile was a razor’s edge. "Eloise understands discipline, Larissa. She’ll ensure your girls learn... obedience." He emphasized the last word, glancing pointedly at me. Mom nodded her head a couple of quick nods, her face turning rosy, as if... she hadn't taught us discipline! How dare this lunatic and his crazy cruel creed-ants! I'd show them... only he had it over my mother now. He had us under his whim, and mom knew what happened if she stepped out of line. I didn't trust them with Nadia without mom here. I had to find a way to keep mom here, no matter what Jennifer forced up on me. I would not leave Nadia to their whims, and I think the only one that could stop them... or at least have a chance, is mom. I had to find a way to make sure she had to stay. "Mr. Greivere?" I nervously spoke my voice trembling and low. "Um... you... you need our mother, don't you, sir?" Jennifer kicked me under the table hard enough to bruise my shinbone. I winced but kept my gaze fixed on Mr. Greivere, who slowly lowered his forkful of lamb. "Excuse me?" "I... I just mean... you need our mom, or we wouldn't be here? You... um... you are very gracious taking us in and everything, but truth is... you need her?" I was more pleading I think than making a statement. I was trying to see... if I agreed to something, if it would be worth it or not.... If it would make sure mom stayed around.... Mr. Greivere leaned back, his chair creaking softly. The chandelier light caught the silver streaks in his hair, making them gleam like wire. "Need?" He chuckled, low and humorless. "Miss Miller possesses certain... talents. Skills cultivated under your father’s unfortunate enterprises. Skills that happen to align with resolving Mr. Wedgewig’s little financial entanglement." His gaze slid to Mom, who paled, clutching her napkin like a lifeline. "Her expertise in forensic accounting is... irreplaceable. For now." He speared a glistening carrot. "But expertise can be copied. Loyalty?" He shook his head slowly. "That requires incentive." "We... well, mom has incentive, if I stay around, right?" I asked hopefully peeking not only his interest but also Jennifer's. I somehow think from what I've observed, he'd do nearly anything for his precious princess. "You see, we don't have our contract done yet, sir, and I can actually concede some more, if... if you would like to make a deal. I just... I want to know that Nadia grows up with a mother, you know? That's my incentive." I felt my face so fiery red, that it was probably possible to roast the duck right off it, yet again. I was shaking. I was scared. But I had to do it, not just because I loved my mom, but because Nadia needed someone that could keep her safe, and I was doubting I'd be able to, as much as Jennifer had controlled me even before a paper was signed. Mr. Greivere paused mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air as lamb juice dripped onto the pristine tablecloth. The silence stretched, thick with the clink of silverware and Nadia's muffled sniffles. Jennifer's eyes narrowed, cold and assessing. "What exactly are you offering, Lena?" Her voice was a whisper, but it sliced through the room. "Your... loyalty?" The word hung like a noose. "Five years, minimum," I told her. "I... I'll take whatever wage you think fair, but you... you don't have to worry about... about labor laws. Honestly, your dad is already breaking them by forcing a teenager to work, and not me... but... That girl sitting next to my sister, for example. And you are both breaking them because a kid in high school is only allowed a few hours after school. You want more than that, right? Well.... I sign a contract that mom counter signs. I... I become your dad's foster kid for five years... that means... there are no labor laws because it looks on paper like he's just raising me, but you..., Jennifer, again, you can pay what you think I'm worth, but if you don't want me bringing shame to the family, then I'll need some allowances to not look too poor, right? And I... I can work anytime you want as long as I have time to do homework and two hours a night to... relax?" Mr. Greivere tapped his chin and nodded slowly. A flicker of something—calculation, perhaps—crossed his eyes. The roast duck suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth; its rich, fatty aroma turned cloying, blending sickeningly with the persistent dampness beneath my dress. Eloise shifted beside Nadia, her worn maid’s uniform stark against the fine linen napkin draped over her lap. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the chair’s edge. "Lena, you are not an adult," mom started to try to put a stop to this, but Mr. Greivere raised a silencing hand. His eyes swept over me like a hawk assessing prey. "Intriguing proposition," he murmured. "A five-year apprenticeship? Binding? Legally untouchable?" He leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Sign away your labor protections in exchange for... what? Larissa stays free? Protected?" His gaze flicked to Mom’s pale face. "And Nadia?" I frowned. "So Nadia grow up with her natural mother," I said. "And you continue to protect them just like you promised, and you already signed a contract to let my mom work so she can buy Nadia what you don't provide. You don't touch Nadia, as far as being a guardian. You leave her alone. I don't mind Eloise being our governor, but mom keeps her rights as my sister's primary care taker... period." I was beat red, and felt winded like I had ran a hundred miles for someone's life. He leaned back, savoring my desperation. Across the table, Jennifer smirked, her manicured nails tapping a rhythm on her crystal glass—*ting, ting, ting*—each note sharp as a needle. Eloise froze beside Nadia, her gaze darting between my mother’s blanched face and the dripping fork in Mr. Greivere’s hand. Nadia clutched her bread roll so tight it crumbled, scattering golden dust across her plate like fallen hopes. "I... I peed my pants," I told Mr. Greivere. I... I'm so nervous about this, but it's the right thing to do. I'll do it, but I... I got nervous. I'm peeing my pants." There, Jenny! I got one over on you. I know why you wanted me to trip, so your dad would catch me in wet panties, now he thinks I had a reason to pee them... so there! That was all in my head. I could never say it like that to her or this would definitely not go the way I wanted... but in my own mind, I'd known I bested her, even if just this once! Jennifer's breath hitched, her smirk vanishing as her knuckles whitened around her fork. A drip of gravy slid unnoticed from her plate onto the pristine linen. Across the table, Eloise flinched, her gaze darting to Nadia’s trembling shoulders. Mr. Greivere’s eyes narrowed—a predator scenting weakness—but before he could speak, Jennifer slammed her hand down. Silverware clattered. "You disgusting little—!" Her shrill voice cracked the tension like glass. "I know, sir," I kept my attention fully on Mr. Greivere. I didn't have a contract with Jennifer yet, so she can scream all she wants, but the only way she gets to get even with me, is if daddy let's us make the contract I just laid out. I wouldn't sign otherwise, and I... I am still nervous. I might actually be peeing, I'm not sure. But I as scared as I am... I'm not signing unless I see that mom stays with Nadia, and he keeps mom for all five years keeping the contract he already had her sign for as long. Mr. Greivere raised a silencing hand toward Jennifer. Her furious glare bounced off him like hail on stone. The dining room froze—even Eloise stopped breathing beside Nadia. Only the faint *drip* of Jennifer’s spilled gravy broke the silence. His eyes locked onto mine, cold and assessing. "Clever," he murmured, the word slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "Using your... accident... as leverage. Threatening to withhold your signature unless my daughter behaves?" A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Jennifer, learn from this. Emotional outbursts are liabilities." He turned back to me, steepling his fingers. "Five years. Foster status. No labor protections. Larissa remains free, Nadia untouched. Done." "You must excuse me, sir, but it's not done. Not until you produce the paper tomorrow morning for me to sign. I am not promised until it is done. You said loyalty is the only thing that means anything to you, and then you said that loyalty has to be bought. Not like that, sure," I was feeling braver now. "So, when you bring the contract, and it says exactly as I stated in it, then I will sign it, and you will have full control over me, and Jennifer can whoop my bottom for peeing in the chair just now." Mr. Greivere’s eyes narrowed to slits, the chandelier light catching the predatory gleam within. Jennifer’s fork clattered against her plate, her knuckles bone-white as gravy soaked into the linen. Eloise recoiled beside Nadia, her worn sleeve brushing Mom’s trembling arm. "Fine," he hissed, the word sharp as shattered crystal. "Tomorrow. But understand, Lena—breach one term, and your mother spends those five years in a cell." He snapped his fingers, and servants materialized, clearing plates with silent efficiency. The roast duck’s richness now reeked of decay. "I know," I said quietly knowing I had put myself under Jennifer for the next five years, and under him too. But the contract needs to give me time to do homework and two hours to play every evening. That's part of the deal. No punishments, no chores, nothing for two hours a day, just like a regular kid gets time to play after school. You... you said it was done a minute ago." Mr. Greivere’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Terms noted." He waved a dismissive hand, and servants swept forward like ghosts, removing the half-eaten duck with its cloying, fatty stench. Jennifer leaned back in her chair, her laughter a low, venomous hum. "Playtime?" She traced a finger along the edge of her crystal flute. "Darling, *my* demands come first. Always." The icy certainty in her voice coiled around my spine. I looked at Mr. Greivere when she voiced her threat. "Sir? Would the house Greivere go against a contract before some street trash like my-self?" I asked him as a way to show Jennifer, that the two hours of playtime were non-negotiable. Mr. Greivere didn't look at Jennifer. He nodded curtly. "Jennifer will be reminded of the terms," he stated, his voice cold steel. "Your time is yours—from seven to nine nightly. Uninterrupted." Jennifer’s lips pressed into a bloodless line, her knuckles white where she gripped her fork. I sat, out of breath, shaking, but actually revelling in the fact I got over on her, TWICE, not once. She didn't get to humiliate me on her terms! I did it on my own, and she cannot interrupt my "playtime." That's what you get when you live by the inmutable law of contracts! Mr. Greivere tapped his bell again. "Desert?" he asked. Everyone nodded weakly. Mom glanced at me and whispered, "Are you sure?" I nodded to her. "I'll do what I have to," I whispered back. I told him I peed, so I just let myself pee my pants. I'd had to go for a while, but WAS too scared to ask to go. Now, they expected a puddle, so I had to give them one anyway. I smirked at Jennifer as I let myself pee... disgusting as it was, it was out of her hands at least—how I was humiliated. Jennifer recoiled as the wet stain bloomed across the cushion beneath me, a dark, spreading map of defiance. The sour scent cut through the lingering rosemary and gravy, sharp as vinegar. Her nostrils flared; her knuckles whitened around her untouched crystal flute. Mr. Greivere merely sighed, tapping his bell with detached impatience. "Eloise," he commanded, his voice flat, "attend to Lena before dessert stains the upholstery." I quietly went with her, not fighting. I had done this. I was glad though. It was Eloise taking me off on her own, and not Jennifer coming along with snide remarks.

Chapter Six The Eviction Scheme Nadia, my ten-year-old sister, waited in the drawing room, apparently a rich person's waiting room for those that are expected, perched stiffly on a golden velvet chair with a dark redwood frame beside Eloise. All around that room, bookcases lined three of the walls towering over the doors, one set of which were double, the ones I came through, one was a single that went to one side, and the other was nearly hidden, a sliding three-piece-panel like wall that when pulled to one side, revealed a large oak table that would see twelve on each side plus one at the head and one at the foot. Nadia's eyes widened when she saw me—a flicker of terror crossing her face before she looked down at her own lap, her hands twisting in her freshly pressed dress. Eloise gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head towards both her, and then me. Eloise had been one of the maids that had humiliated and cleaned me, supposedly on loan to Jennifer this evening to help deal with my disgust. Mom sat somewhere off to one side flanked by two people I hadn't met yet. I didn't really think I could take meeting anyone else at the moment. She seemed so stiff, though, like something was really bothering her besides our current predicament. It was something that seemed to make her keep her gaze at her lap, not looking to comfort Nadia, nor to look to give me any understanding. She looked almost defeated. Eloise cleared her throat softly. "Miss Nadia," she murmured, her voice low but cutting through the thick silence. "Remember your posture." Nadia flinched, straightening instantly on the velvet cushion, her small hands frozen mid-twist in the fabric of her dress. Her knuckles were white. The scent of beeswax polish and old paper hung heavy in the air, underscored by something sharper – fear sweat, maybe, or the cloying sweetness of imported flowers wilting in a vase near the towering bookcases. A maid pulled back the three-panel-wall revealing the table, with the help of two stronger men, and they bowed at us. Jennifer rose, then Eloise, then I, and mom, and finally, Nadia. "I want you to move quietly," Jennifer spat in my hear in hushed tones, and I could see Eloise in Nadia's ear at the same time. Nadia had nodded when spoken to. From the shadowed doorway beyond the revealed table, a tall figure emerged. Max Grievere, Jennifer's father, moved with predatory grace, his polished boots clicking softly on the marble floor. His gaze swept the room, lingering a fraction too long on Nadia’s rigid form before landing squarely on me. A cold smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "Ah," he murmured, his voice smooth as aged whiskey yet laced with frost. "You clean up nice--might make a good training assistant for my daughter, yet." The scent of expensive cologne couldn't mask the underlying tang of his contempt. Nadia and I were directed towards the foot of the table, where we each sat on one side of the very end of the table, and Jennifer took her place at the foot. Mom was steered by her two escorts to the middle of the table, though they did not linger with her, and actually Eloise had left the room, too. At the head of the table, after Max had sat, Jennifer's mom appeared at the same door way he had appeared, and she floated over the floor with much less sound despite having on black polished heels. Shawna bowed and kissed Max's hand before she took the seat immediate to his right. Max stood, his gaze scanning the whole table. He clasped his hands behind his back. "We've gathered," he began, his voice low but filling the cavernous room, "to discuss futures. Specifically," his eyes locked onto me, "my daughter Jennifer requires a companion. Someone malleable. Trainable." I gulped. I thought we had all been told this stuff already, and I didn't see anyone else in the room to need to bring this up. Was he going to change his mind about me? I hoped he wasn't going to go after my ten year old sister. There was no way I'd let this spoiled brat have my sister like that. "So..., I have some important people coming in a few minutes, who will be meeting my daughter's new personal assistant and her little sister, and also a new position has opened up in our company, where your mom will actually be handling records." I stiffened in my seat, and I heard the ruckus of the people starting to close off the three-panel-wall door again, and then realized, he liked dramatic effects. "A personal assistant," he looked from my mom, to Nadia, and then back to me, "is above all else, a lady. You, Lena, will behave like a lady at all times. If you make a mistake, you will be severely dealt with, understand?" I gulped. "Even if you are not officially employed by the house," he turned to my little sister. "You will have expectations, too. There will be no lying. There will be no contradicting the head of the house which means me... nor anyone else I put in charge of keeping you out of trouble." Nadia looked to mom who gave a slow nod to her, and so she nodded back to Max. Max smiled. "Good." He tapped the table with his knuckle, the sound sharp as a gunshot. "Jennifer, demonstrate." Jennifer rose smoothly, her face a mask of bored perfection. She walked towards Nadia, who flinched back into her chair. "Your sister," Jennifer announced, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "will be joining my etiquette lessons. Starting tomorrow." Nadia’s breath hitched; her eyes darted to mine, wide with panic. I narrowed my eyes on Max. That had not been a part of the deal. I was supposed to have to put up with Jennifer’s bowl, and no one else! I glared from him over where Jennifer was terrifying Nadia. I rose, abruptly, wanting to say something, but…. Max raised a single hand to me, and I froze. He didn’t even look at me. He was looking at Nadia, who flinched again as Jennifer leaned in close. "You will address me as 'Miss Jennifer'," Jennifer hissed, close enough that Nadia could smell her floral perfume mingling with the sharp tang of her breath. "And you will curtsy properly. Like this." Jennifer executed a shallow, mocking dip, her eyes never leaving Nadia’s pale face. My fists clenched under the table, nails digging crescents into my palms. Above us, the chandelier crystals threw fractured light onto the polished wood, highlighting the tremor in Nadia’s shoulders. Mom stayed statue-still farther down the table, staring blankly at her folded hands. Shawna traced the rim of her water glass with a manicured finger, her expression unreadable. Only Max seemed relaxed, leaning back slightly in his high-backed chair, watching the scene unfold like a favored play. "You do want your sister and your mom to have an easy time," Jennifer cooed at Nadia in whispers as she showed her how to stand and do the curtsy correctly. "You will obey me, and do it, or you can be separated from your family. Your choice." Nadia's lower lip trembled, but she pushed herself up on shaky legs, mimicking Jennifer's shallow dip. Her curtsy was clumsy, uneven, and she stumbled slightly on the descent. A titter escaped Shawna. Max's smile widened, coldly satisfied. "Adequate for a first attempt," he stated, though his eyes held no warmth. "Practice. Daily. Under Jennifer’s supervision." The dismissal in his tone was absolute. Nadia sank back into her chair, trembling, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek before she furiously wiped it away. "And, as for you," Max looked into my eyes. "You're defiance, though aptly controlled and put away a moment ago, will not do at all. You need a lot of training, and you will learn etiquette along with your sister at the regular time she does everyday. You will be watched, not only because Jennifer will be teaching you, but...." And he pointed up along the ceiling, and I could see five cameras aimed at the table where we sat. "Understand?" My stomach tightened, and I nodded quickly, forcing my shoulders to relax under his stare. The air tasted stale, thick with polish and Jennifer's floral perfume, undercut by Nadia's faint, salty tears. Across the table, Mom's knuckles were bone-white against the dark wood, her gaze still fixed on her lap like it held some escape route none of us could see. "Excellent," Max smiled and sat down. "Now, some important people are going to enter momentarily, and you will all quietly wait for them to sit, and then I'll be explaining to them about the issues at hand--getting your dad's finances back under the control of your mother." He was still addressing me? I froze. Dad's finances? Control? Mom was still staring down at her lap, but her shoulders hunched slightly. "I understand that your mother is being looked into by the police for murdering her husband, and it is alleged that it was after your parents may have embezzled some funds from the company. However, I feel all of that is a fabrication so someone who actually enacted the plan, and killed your old man, could get the funds. I am going to see that that doesn't happen, but for me to do this, free and clear of charge, and to earn your thirty-five dollars a week, Lena, you must be good and do what you are told as well as your mother and your sister. Understand?" My throat tightened. Murder? Embezzlement? The words hit like physical blows. Dad's car had been found a couple of weeks ago, and I knew the police said it looked like a hunting accident or something, but I knew it was no accident! Now the truth is, someone is trying to arrest mom, and trying to steal all of my dad's hard work? The heavy wall panels parted with a groan--open again. Four figures strode in—two men in sharply tailored suits with faces like carved stone, and a woman whose icy blonde hair and crimson suit screamed expensive authority. Their footsteps echoed sharply in the sudden quiet. Max rose, his smile shifting into something smoother, practiced. "Ah, Commissioners. Right on time." Three men took seats near the head on Max's left side, their eyes sweeping over us with detached curiosity. The woman took a seat right next to Shawna. The sliding walls were again, pulled closed. Nadia shrank across from me, her small frame trembling against the velvet chair. I forced myself to sit perfectly still, my hands flat on my thighs, mimicking Jennifer's bored posture. My mind raced—murder? Embezzlement? Mom had been protecting us, not herself. The betrayal felt like bile in my throat. Max gestured expansively. "Allow me to present Lena Miller," his voice smooth as poured oil, "Jennifer’s personal assistant-in-training. Her sister, Nadia. And their mother, Larissa Miller." He paused, letting the names hang. "The individuals central to our... unfortunate situation." The blonde woman’s gaze sliced to Mom—cold, assessing. "Larissa Miller. We’ve reviewed the financial discrepancies." Her tone was clipped, devoid of inflection. "Substantial transfers from your husband’s accounts occurred after his reported disappearance. Convenient timing." Mom shook in her seat. "And Max will tell you, that I was unable to get any of that money." Her voice sounded like a bundle of nerves. "I told him about everything, and I mean.... We were on the street, and I was going to the bank to find out what happened, when Mr. Grievere stopped me from walking right into the police. What is this?" Max cleared his throat. "Mrs. Carter, I think you have been misinformed. She is the one I'm going to defend on these charges. She and her kids spent the last night at a dingy park bathroom, trying to keep some form of shelter over them, and some kind of walls from the outside. That's why they still somewhat smell... un-desirable. You know soap can only do so much especially when you are poor to start with." The blonde woman—Mrs. Carter—leaned forward, her crimson nails tapping the table like impatient beetles. "That doesn't explain the transfers, Mr. Grievere. Over two hundred thousand dollars vanished from Victor Miller's accounts three days after the coroner estimated his death." Her eyes narrowed. "Conveniently, just before Mrs. Miller reported him missing." I stood up, the accusations making no sense! "Excuse me, ma'am, but you need to get your facts straight. She didn't need to report it. We were fucking waiting for him to come home, and the police told us, they found his car off of the road and abandoned! That's when we knew he was in trouble! He had been coming home after a business meeting. Whoever took that money, took it because the funds had already been seized as a part of the investigation, or so we thought!" Though Mrs. Carter had tried to stop me and had rage on her face at my interruption, Max put a hand out, gesturing for Shawna to cool her so I could have my say. His eyes did narrow on me, though, like that outburst would cost me something! Mrs. Carter leaned back, her crimson lips tightening into a thin line. "Seized?" she snapped. "Those accounts were drained before the police freeze, girl. Your mother's fingerprints are on the withdrawal slips—digitally verified." The accusation hung thick as smoke, sharpening the scent of beeswax and fear-sweat clinging to Nadia across from me. Mom flinched violently, her knuckles whitening further against the dark wood as if the polished surface could swallow her whole. Mom shook her head. "Mrs. Carter, I can prove to you that I had no chance to make those withdraws, if you will let me speak at all,” she stood and stilled herself, shaking at the knees. “Whatever transfer receipts you are talking about, they had to be forged because my personal phone had died a month ago. I had not had a chance to replace it, and we were getting our calls on the landline in the apartment we lived in.” The woman’s mouth was tight, but she sat back listening for the moment. “For the last two weeks, we had no money at all,” Mom continued. “Which is why we were evicted! We were down to under fifty dollars to live on when we had to leave the house, and Max has my purse. He has all the information I have, right there at his hands, since he took it as a part of his own investigation!” Mom sat down, excausted, but had a small plea left in her as the woman looked at her with disdain, as though she was mentally poking holes in mom’s statement. “Please, Mr. Greivere, you promised that you believed me, and that you were going to find out what happened!" Max sighed, a theatrical sound that echoed slightly in the heavy silence. "Indeed. Mrs. Miller’s financial access was severely limited long before Victor’s… unfortunate accident. The phone records support her claim." He gestured dismissively towards the blonde woman. "Conveniently overlooked, Commissioner Carter? Or merely inconvenient for your narrative?" Mrs. Carter’s eyes flashed with irritation, her crimson nails digging into the polished wood. The tension crackled like static, thickening the air with unspoken threats. "You may think that man you work for, Mr. Wedgewig, is some kind of powerhouse in the corporate, but he is not above the law. If we find out he had anything to do with this, and you and I both know he'd been going after the Croftland business for a while, now...." He let his own threat linger unfinished in the air. It was like a game of chess. I heard water spilling on the floor from across me... my little sister peeing her pants. Mrs. Carter’s icy composure fractured. She slammed a palm on the table, rattling the water glasses. "How dare you imply—" Her protest died as Nadia’s sharp gasp cut through. A dark stain bloomed across the golden velvet seat beneath her, spreading rapidly down her legs. The sharp, rancid scent of urine, shame; sliced through the thin veil of perfume and polish. Nadia froze, mortified, her face crimson as she stared at the spreading puddle. Eloise materialized silently from a side door, a towel already in hand, but Max’s raised finger halted her mid-step. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. "Why did Nadia have to be at this?" I whispered to Jennifer knowing that she was scared to death, and that even if that were no excuse, Jennifer knew somehow that she wets the bed, and she's only ten. This didn't seem fair to Nadia... not to me. Jennifer put a finger to her lips glaring me down. Nadia, had her eyes in her hands, face staring at her wet lap. Mom looked over at Nadia, scared of helping her in the instant, I could see as her arms moved in Nadia's direction, but her butt stayed planted in the seat. A moment caused a new, if disturbing quiet, to settle, and Mrs. Carter turned back to Max. "Look, as much as Mr. Wedgewig may have wanted the Croftland estates, there is no proof he was behind such a poorly thought out scheme." Max leaned forward, his knuckles whitening on the table edge. "Poorly thought out? It was executed flawlessly—until now." His gaze flicked to Nadia’s trembling form, then back to Carter. "Perhaps Wedgewig underestimated the desperation of a grieving widow." The implication hung heavy—Mom’s panic, her eviction, her reliance on Max—all potentially manipulated. There was another eerie silence, as I watched my sister put her head on the table; her hands covering her face. I wanted to go to her side, but Jennifer wagged a finger at me, and even mom didn't go, which meant, it was a bad idea... so I waited. Finally, Mrs. Carter spoke, her voice colder than the tile floor Nadia had just wet. "Mr. Grievere, I've seen desperate people before. What I haven't seen is a shred of evidence linking Mr. Wedgewig to Victor Miller's disappearance or these transfers. Fingerprints don't lie." "Fingerprints?" Max smiled eerily as if he knew something that was not obvious. "You are saying there are fingerprints... where exactly?" He had a sly smile that said that she was about to put her foot in a big ol' bear trap, and he was just waiting to clamp his jaws of fact down on her! Mrs. Carter hesitated, her confidence faltering under Max’s predatory stillness. "On the withdrawal slips," she stated, but her voice lacked its earlier conviction. "Dated after Victor's disappearance." "Withdrawal slips that were presented...?" he touched his fingers together in a very calm manner, watching her with cool collected eyes. "Where did these slips show up? Do you know who the bank was dealing with when they saw them, or if it was done... digitally?" Mrs. Carter frowned, shifting slightly in her seat. "The slips were presented at First National Bank of Hartford—" "Go on...," he smiled. "You said after his disappearance, how soon after?" His cool calm smirk still in place as if the bank people didn't concern him for some reason. Mrs. Carter's lips tightened. "Three weeks after Victor was declared missing. The bank manager confirmed Larissa Miller presented them personally." Max chuckled softly, a dry, unsettling sound. "Interesting. Because First National Bank of Hartford closed its doors permanently nine days before Victor vanished. There haven't been withdrawal slips accepted there in months." He let the silence hang, thick as the scent of urine still clinging to the air. "And.... So, Commissioner Carter... whose bank manager confirmed these phantom slips?" Mrs. Carter paled, her knuckles whitening on her briefcase strap. She glanced towards the door as if expecting her unseen commissioner, then back at Max. "That... that can't be right. The records we have—" "Are all obvious lies. You do realize three weeks after his disappearance, puts the time frame, within a few days of today! Since her children and her neighbors can attest to her not even leaving the house to pick up her children from activities in that time, and her not moving at all for even food shopping because of depression.... You can see why none of that would make any sense what so ever. She had to leave because of an eviction, and that's the only reason she sits at my table now." Mrs. Carter's jaw tightened, her gaze darting to Larissa's hunched form. The scent of bleach from Eloise's cleaning mingled with the lingering sour tang of Nadia's accident, sharpening the tension in the air. Larissa lifted her head slowly, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. "I was packing boxes," she whispered hoarsely. "Crying over photo albums. Ask Lena... she brought me soup." I nodded fiercely, my gaze staring defiantly at the cold woman. "You should talk to Mrs. Creevy, who lives across the street. She got us groceries two weeks in a row because mama hadn't even had the energy to leave her bed some days, and she was worried if we were eating. Even Nadia's piano teacher noticed and called mom because Nadia forgot to take a bath twice, and smelled because she...," my face went fiery blazingly hot as I was about to betray my sister's secret. "...she has been having accidents since daddy disappeared... wetting the bed." Mrs. Carter stared at me, her eyes widening slightly as she processed this. The commissioner swallowed hard, her knuckles still white on her briefcase strap. "That doesn't disprove the transfers," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. She glanced at her phone vibrating silently on the table. "Oh, I have no doubt the transfers happened," Max smiled with a keen smile. "But if Ms. Larissa Miller wasn't in any condition to make them, and you know children under eighteen couldn't do it, then there is your proof that something else is happening. Something with your employer's mark all over it--Mr. Wedgewig. I say again, give me more bait to dismantle in front of you, if you have more." His words were a taunt, a challenge, for her to give him more fodder that he could wave under her nose, that he would gladly use in court against her. Mrs. Carter stared at her buzzing phone, the screen flashing with an unknown number. Her fingers trembled as she hesitated—answering might reveal Commissioner Carter's involvement, ignoring it screamed guilt. The scent of bleach tightened around us like a noose. Nadia shifted across from me, her breath shallow; we knew Mom hadn't touched a bank account since Dad vanished. Only Max had handled the eviction notices crumpled in Mom's purse. When Mrs. Carter finally snatched up the phone, Max leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Put it on speaker," he commanded softly. Her thumb hovered, then pressed the button. Static crackled, followed by a man's clipped voice: "Carter? The Hartford records just vanished from the server. Like they never existed." Silence swallowed the room. Even Jennifer froze mid-breath, her fingers trying to drive their nails into the table. Max's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Convenient timing, Commissioner. Almost like someone panicked." He gestured at Larissa, slumped and trembling. "Your employer didn't count on a widow too broken to fake transactions—or a ten-year-old girl so scared she'd piss herself." Nadia whimpered, burying her face deeper in her hands. The sharp scent of bleach burned my nostrils, mixing with sweat and fear. "I take it you need to go assess the damage and review your tactics. Just know, whatever you bring back to me, well, it will be recorded...," and he glanced up in a corner of the ceiling revealing that the room had five cameras upon the table. "I am collecting my own evidence, and if I find that you are involved in this scheme, more than just representing your client, it will come out if you continue to subject my client and her girls to your grueling. Otherwise, we can see you in court." Mrs. Carter pushed back her chair abruptly, the legs scraping harshly on the tile. Her briefcase strap slid off her shoulder as she fled towards the door without another word, leaving only the fading click of her heels and the sharp scent of bleach. Nadia lifted her tear-streaked face from her hands, trembling visibly now that the harsh spotlight was gone. Eloise finally moved, wrapping a thick towel around Nadia’s shoulders with quiet efficiency.