Game Time

Chapter 135: I think I may have found the straw that breaks the camels back for Carly's return to the earth dimension: her student visa. Or rather Connor's student visa - if a different gender was a big enough problem for Emerson that Stacy got 'corrected', there's no chance Carly goes back through the portal. Or did Emerson apply for a new visa for her in the course of procuring the documents Amanda forced them to change after the nanite incident? Can't remember..  Anyway, I guess this wasn't much about the chapter itself - really liked it as usual!

What a good baby 

This story needs a sequel. It would require Carly to write a script for the next episode with Harper as a college student as the nest hen and Evelyn, Emma and 5 or 6 other little girls in her nest as the other college students. It would be interesting to see the reactions of the little girls to being assigned a nest hen who has already adopted two little girls. And also to see how long it takes those little girls to believe that the crazy story about Harper adopting Emma and Evelyn is true, and that she is really one of the few decent Amazons. Oh, and belated congratulations on the story's third birthday. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)

I'm going on Safari tonight! 

Twenty-Two: A Day in the Life, Part 2 11:35 AM Even if I had pilfered a few drops for myself, that didn’t amount to being that much milk. Enough to make me hump my diaper and take a short nap, it seems, but not enough to incapacitate me for the rest of the day. Shortly after Mirabelle wakes me, I’m back on my feet again–though one of my hands still clutches the edge of the counter, as I still don’t feel 100% on my feet yet. “Sorry,” I mutter. I might have apologized already, I can’t be too sure. MIrabelle laughs, shaking her head. “It’s on me, isn’t it? What did I expect–leaving a baby alone with treats and expecting him not to indulge?” “Was this, like, a test?” I ask. “Because if I failed, I just want you to know that I’m ready to try again. I can do better. I can–” “It wasn’t a test, Alfie. I really did just want to package up some drops. And that’s still a job that needs to be done.” “You’ll let me do it, right?” She gently strokes my shoulder and nods. “Of course. I did suspect that you were going to try and sneak a few more, I suppose. Very few would have resisted that temptation, I think. Hell, this is precisely why I’m not doing it myself.” This is one of the many reasons I like Mirabelle–she’s just so damn human. She knows how to manage a community, but that doesn’t make her infallible.  In the back of my mind, I have the vague recollection of being pulled over her lap and spanked. I don’t think that actually happened, but I could certainly see myself dwelling on that little mental picture while under the influence of these drops. And, well, that probably accounts for the stickiness I feel in the front of my diaper. I feel my cheeks warming as all of this dawns on me. I really hope Mirabelle–or anyone else–didn’t see me a little earlier. She reaches behind me and puts her hand under the bottom of my diaper, giving it a little lift. “That’s pretty heavy,” she says. “Maybe we ought to get that thing changed.” For a moment, I can’t help but wonder what food safety laws would have to say about an operation like this. As clean as everything is, I doubt a health inspector would be delighted to know that the kitchen staff was loading their diapers while they cooked food. But that’s not my problem. And maybe there are protocols in place here for this that I just don’t know about. “Come on,” she says, taking my hand in hers. “Let’s go get you cleaned up so we can put you back to work.” 11:55 AM We’ve left the dining hall, and entered one of the ‘Maternal Council’ cabins not too far away. Mirabelle seems unsurprised that there’s currently nobody stationed inside of it. “Nita’s probably at lunch right now,” she says. “But I’m sure she won’t mind if we borrow her space for a few minutes. Have you met Nita yet?” “I’ve met a lot of people,” I say. “It’s still pretty hard to put names to faces.” “How about Cade?” I shrug. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me.” “It’s an interesting story,” she says, patting the top of the changing table to signal for me to crawl atop it. Which I do. “As far as I know, they’re the only two people here related by blood. Brother and sister. Twins, actually.” “That’s…kind of strange,” I say. As close as Sam and I are, in so many ways, I can’t imagine us both being okay with hanging out in Babyland together. Then again, maybe there’s just something about the nature of twins that I’ll never understand for myself. “Well if you ever get the chance to talk to them, you really ought to. They’re very nice.” I don’t have a crystal clear recollection of my orgasm in the kitchen, though I certainly know that it happened. It actually has me in a unique place right now, as I’m used to diaper changes being the thing that stimulates me and gets my cock nice and stiff. It doesn’t seem to matter how many diaper changes I’ve had–they always turn me on. Even this morning, when Patty changed my morning diaper, my pecker was at full attention (she ignored it, but still).  But, this time around, my manhood–and my libido–seem to be taking a little rest. The result is a diaper change free of any sexual tension, an oddity in my experience at The Cradle so far. Without the ability to focus on my arousal–whether it’s embracing or suppressing it–I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe there were a few changes like this while I was heavily under the influence of the milk at Daycare, but I doubt I was thinking much of anything then. The result is a diaper change far more humiliating than I’m used to. I’m just…a docile baby, being manhandled and cleaned by someone bigger and more responsible. I feel small. I feel silly. I feel kind of pathetic.  And then, as Mirabelle lifts my legs into the air and glides a moist wipe under my scrotum, she flashes me a smile. It’s a warm smile. It seems to say: “Hey, it’s alright. Nobody’s judging you.” I exhale, blowing out as much of my insecurity and anxiety as I can.  By the time the scent of a fresh dousing of baby powder smacks my nostrils, I’m smiling. 12:15 PM “Are you hungry?” Mirabelle asks as we head back into the kitchen again. “I’m okay for now,” I say. Despite the fact that I had a pretty decent-sized breakfast this morning–The Cradle doesn’t skimp when it comes to fattening us babies–I do feel a slight grumble in my belly. But after bungling my task earlier, I’m dedicated now to doing right by Mirabelle.  I’m going to bag the fuck out of these drops. “Shara’s just over there,” she says, pointing to the other side of the kitchen–the side that’s still making food for hungry babies. “If you need anything, just let her know and she’ll take care of you. And when you’re done, you can let her know too and she’ll give me a call.” “Sure,” I say. Moments later, and after Mirabelle makes me wash my hands, I’m left to my own devices again. There’s a bin of pure-white candy drops, tempting and taunting me, a pile of little cloth pouches, and another bin where, so far, I’ve only managed to place two completed bundles. A third still sits on the counter. There’s exactly one drop inside of it, with a few loose ones lying next to it. Seems as good as any spot to start. I fill up the pouch, cinch it closed, and toss it in the bin. Don’t eat any more of these. I grab another pouch. Fill it. Toss it in the completed bin.  Hey, good job! You deserve a reward! Just one. I resist that urge and I fill up another pouch instead. And then another. And then another after that. Soon, I find a rhythm–an almost-automatic routine–that pulls me deeper and deeper into my task. It occurs to me that I haven’t had ‘work’ like this in a long time. It reminds me of being in school, maybe. Or the first few jobs I ever had. The monotony of retail. Washing dishes at a local restaurant. No computer. No need for creativity and good writing. No editors or proofreaders. Just a process–a small job that helps contribute to something bigger. It feels really good. And, believe it or not, it helps to stave off the hunger. The hunger that, if left unchecked, could result in stuffing another handful of those delectable little drops into my mouth. I’m a goddamn drop-bagging machine. I’m employee of the year. I’m… “Unh…” I’m pooping my diaper.  It mostly comes as a surprise to me. As I feel my diaper expand and grow heavier, I realize that I might have been staving off my bowels’ urges for a while without even thinking about it. Shifting my focus to my little one-man-assembly-line operation took my concentration off my biological needs. Voila–stinky butt. Alfie: Now with diaper-pooping action. It’s not an enormous load, but it also doesn’t have to be. Any amount of mess in my diaper is enough to make it heavier. Smellier. Squishier.  This really shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Gripping the edge of the counter, I grunt and push a little more, seeing if I can coax anything else out. There’s a wet rippling noise in the back of my diaper–a short spurt of piss in the front of it–but it doesn’t feel like there’s much else left in the tank. I hurriedly finish my task, getting the last few pouches together and putting them into the bin. As it turns out, there are a few extra drops left, with no pouches to put them in. Once more, the temptation is strong to just pop them into my mouth–maybe one at a time, or maybe all at once. But I doubt that Mirabelle counted out the exact number of drops needed to fill these pouches. If she had, then I’d already be short when I ate a few earlier.  And, well, what if these things are really hard to make? What if these last few are the only ones left?  Fine, fine, I’ll keep my grubby hands to myself. There is one last part of my task, though–I’m supposed to go over and tell Shara, who I’ve never met before, that I’m done so she can let Mirabelle know. And, now, I’d have to go and do that with a dirty diaper on. Sure, I’d imagine Shara’s used to that kind of thing–I’m sure lots of people make stinky first impressions around here. Maybe I’ve made a few myself. It’d be nice if I didn’t have to though. But what are my options? Either bring my blushing face and loaded bottom to Shara, or wait for Mirabelle to wonder what’s taking me so long and she checks up on me again? I already had one misstep today. I probably don’t need to keep making more–further diminishing whatever faith in me Mirabelle currently has. Let’s go meet Shara. 12:35 PM The first thing I notice about Shara is her enormous smile, trapped between two perfect dimples. She has long, thick, dark brown hair that’s currently tied back behind her head, but I’d love to see what it looks like when unleashed. She’s wearing a long apron, stained with  various orange, red, and brown blobs of meals past. If you were to cut out a square from the center of the apron and frame it, I think you’d have a pretty interesting piece of art. “Here’s the thing,” she says to me, hands on her hips. I’m cooking onions, right? And I still smelled you coming. My face is warm and I shrug sheepishly. “Y-yeah…sorry about that.” She waves a hand in front of her nose, but just once–a backhanded slash that seems far more performative than anything else. “You’re Alfie, right?” “Guilty as charged.” She smirks. “Mirabelle told me you were a stinker.”  “She told you that?” I’m almost offended by this. There’s plenty of babies in this place wearing diapers. I’d find it hard to believe that I’m in the bottom 50% of the smelliest.  Now she’s giggling, clearly delighted by how she’s riled me up. “Don’t get your Huggies in a twist. She meant it in an endearing way.” “Uh, sure.” I don’t know how ‘stinker’ can be endearing, but maybe that’s a conversation I need to have with Mirabelle later. “So, I was supposed to tell you when I finished my job for Mirabelle?” “And did you?” “Uh huh. Got a whole bin full of little candied milk-things in sacks.” “And how many did you eat this time?” “She told you that too?” “Mirabelle tells me lots of things. We’re close like that.” There’s something about the little twinkle in her eye–the slight tilt of her smile, the way her hips twist a little–that makes me a little curious about how close she and Mirabelle are.  Am I…jealous? “Go get your butt wiped,” she says. “But…” “I’ll tell Mirabelle you’re done.” “Alright,” I say. “There were a few drops left. I know exactly how many too. So don’t go stealing a few and blaming it on me.” She laughs. “Ah, damn. You see right through me. Seriously, though. Go. I don’t want your stink getting into my onions.” 1:10 PM I’m on the changing table again. This time with Nita–of the Nita and Cade twins, apparently–doing the honors of changing my swampy diaper.  Once more, making a stinky first impression. Nita is quiet and soft spoken, though she has strong hands and an aura of fearlessness about her.  “Oh, hi,” I say bashfully as I blunder into her cabin. “So…as you may or may not be able to tell, I had a little bit of an accident and…” “Up on the table,” she says with a nod. “I’ll take care of you.” I continue to surprise myself with how willing I am to let a stranger clean my ass. Then again, maybe there aren’t really ‘strangers’ here. There’s a thread that connects us all, and if I trust the thread enough to be connected to it, then I trust everyone else connected. I have an erection during the diaper change. She smirks at it, but otherwise ignores it. 1:35 PM I spot Mirabelle going through the back door of the dining hall shortly after I’ve been freshly diapered. I decide to follow her in, and confirm that she’s content with my service. Inside, I find both her and Shara standing, and laughing, near the counter I was working at when I was bagging up the milk-laced candies. I feel myself immediately blushing as I approach them, as I have a hunch they’re laughing at me. “There he is,” Mirabelle grins. “Feeling better?” “Uh…” The question implies that I felt bad, or gross maybe, earlier while I had a dirty diaper. But, on some level, I think I kind of liked that feeling. Getting a change was certainly the right thing to do, but maybe if there wasn’t a social obligation to do so, I would’ve held off a little longer. Alas, it’s probably easier to just give her the answer she expects to hear: “Yeah. Feeling better.” “I appreciate you taking care of this for me,” Mirabelle says. “It’s just one of those small things I keep saying I’ll get to, but never do.” “It was pretty easy,” I shrug. And it was, despite the temptations. “And you even had a few left over,” she says. “I’ll be honest, I expected that any of the leftovers would’ve, you know, disappeared.” I glance over at Shara, who’s grinning, and I say: “How many were left?” “I dunno,” Mirabelle shrugs. “Four? Five?” I counted seven before I let Shara know I was finished. I’m tempted to call her out for this, but then again, I could’ve done the same thing and didn’t. I probably should’ve. “Open your hand, Alfie,” Mirabelle says. I do so. She deposits a zippered plastic sandwich bag into my hand. In the bag are, in fact, five white drops. “Here at The Cradle, people don’t get ‘paid’ for their work,” Mirabelle says. “Our reward is the community that we’ve maintained and enhanced. It’s the cabin you sleep in and the food you’ve eaten. But, on occasion, it’s nice to get a little reward, isn’t it? Just because? These are for you, Alfie. Use them however you’d like.” “Sharing is caring, of course,” Shara adds. I laugh. “Haven’t you had enough today?”  “You did sneak some, didn’t you?” Mirabelle asks Shara, playfully slapping her shoulder. Shara responds with an exaggerated shrug and an expression of faux-innocence. “What else do you need from me, boss?” I say. “I got all day.” “Why don’t you go and enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” Mirabelle says. “There’s going to be a lot to do in the coming days, and I’d love your help with it all. So how about you meet me back at the farmhouse tomorrow morning? 8-ish?” “Sounds good,” I nod.  We say our goodbyes, and I take my little bag of treats and head back out into the sunlight again. 2:20 PM I’m not used to doing nothing. I mean, I suppose I am, but it’s a different kind of nothing. When I’m at home, I’ve got a bong (or a vape, or something rolled up), a TV, my phone, some snacks, my laptop, or even some comic books. I spend a lot of time being unproductive at home, sure, but it’s not quite nothing. Right now, I’m doing nothing. I’m sitting on the grassy hill, overlooking the little pond, and I’m just…sitting here. Technically, one could argue that this is ‘something,’ but it doesn’t feel like much to me. I’m not staring at anything. I’m not really thinking about anything. I’m just sitting. Breathing. Letting the sun warm my body like I was a lizard. Every once in a while I move a little and I feel the fluffy bulk of my diaper, or I hear it crinkle. I’m still not used to it. And I hope I never am. “Thinking hard or hardly thinking?” asks a voice from behind me. I don’t need to turn around to see who it is. “Hardly thinking, at the moment. What are you up to, Tommy?” “Another day in paradise. How’s The Cradle treating you, Alfie?” He sits down next to me in the grass. I can hear his own diaper rustling a little as he does.  “Can’t complain,” I say. Usually, when I say that, it’s only because I don’t feel like complaining. For once, I truly feel like I have nothing to complain about. Or, if I do, they’re things that I’m just not thinking about right now. “I was actually about to head over to town. If you’re not doing anything, you’re welcome to join me.” “Town, huh? What for?” “We’ve got a visitor coming. I’m supposed to go meet them and bring them back.” “Oh yeah? For the festival?” He nods. “Yep.” “Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “You know what? A little trip to town sounds kind of nice. I’ll go with you.” “Need to get changed first?” he asks. “Nah, just had a change a little bit ago. Still dry. Stink-free. Should be good to go.” It’s wild how nonchalant we can be about things like this. He laughs. “I mean, that’s good too. But I meant, like, your clothes. You probably don’t want to trot around town in a onesie, do you?” “Oh yeah.” It’s already easy to forget that the world beyond The Cradle is a much different place. If he hadn’t said anything to me about my clothes, I wonder how long it would’ve taken for me to think of it on my own. Would I have gotten to town? Would I have been walking down the street of Harpers Bell in a onesie?  I’m happy that I don’t have to find that out today. “Yeah, let me throw some pants on,” I say.  2:50 PM Tommy’s old pickup rambles down the even older stretch of backroad that connects The Cradle to Harpers Bell. I can’t tell if Tommy is aiming for the potholes, or if the road mostly consists of potholes at this point. “Thanks for coming out with me,” he says, some earnestness in his tone. “I’m usually making this trip by myself.” “Hey, no problem,” I say. “So what brought you out here anyway?” He shrugs and laughs. “Ah, you know how it is.” I laugh. “Maybe? I mean, I didn’t find this place myself. If it wasn’t for Anders, I probably would’ve never known a place like this exists.” Saying this aloud makes me wonder what other places exist in this world that I have no clue about. “How did you find out about this place?” But Tommy counters with a question of his own: “Do you know what Mirabelle told me once, when I first arrived here?” “Nope.” “She said that this place finds us–not that we find it.” “I believe that,” I say. “Me too. I mean, yeah, I was in a dark place in my life, and I was looking for a place to escape to. Fell down a few rabbit holes on the internet and ended up learning about this place. But, like, I don’t know how I got there. I’ve even tried retracing my steps, and I can’t. Like, I obviously learned about this place because I’m here. But I don’t know where online I found this place now.” As fascinating as his 21st Century ghost story is, there was something else he mentioned that piques my interest. “A dark place?” He groans. “You don’t want to hear that story.” “I mean…I’ll listen to it. If you’re willing to tell it.” “Here’s the fucking problem–it’s not even a believable story. It’s batshit insane.” “Oh come on,” I say. “Now you have to tell it.” “It’s a long story…” “Give me the back-of-the-DVD-case summary, at least.” “Uh, so…” He thinks about this for a good minute–which is long enough in an otherwise quiet car ride to make me think that he just forgot what we were talking about–before he finally completes that thought: “I got obsessed with wearing diapers, and I tried to wear them at work and I got carried away and everyone found out about it and then I got fired.” “It needs a little editing before it goes onto the DVD case,” I say. “But…damn. That really happened?” “Oh, it’s so much bigger than that. That’s just the super-simplified version.” “Someday, you’ll have to tell me the longer version. But, yeah. I can see why you’d be in need of escape after something like that.” “Right?” “Do you miss it?” I ask. “Your old life?” “Not really,” he sighs. “There’s a person or two I wish I stayed in touch with. But…life is better for me now. Better than it’s ever been, really.” I’m happy for him. Genuinely. 3:35 PM “Well, they’re running late,” Tommy says after checking his phone again. “How late?” I ask. “Should we go back?” “An hour or two?” “Or two?” “Flight got delayed or something,” he shrugs. “It sucks, but what can you do? If you need to go back, we probably have enough time for me to take you.” “Nah, it’s alright.” I’ve been mildly aware of the fact that my diaper’s gotten a little moist in the last ten minutes or so, but the revelation that I’ll be away from The Cradle for at least another hour has me worried about what the state of it will be by the time our guest gets here. “We’ve got some time to kill. Wanna do something in town?” “What’s there to do?” I ask. “Well…there’s the diner.” From where we’re parked, we can see the big sign for Harpers Dinner Bell. I’m not especially hungry, but maybe something cold to drink would be nice. And, what the hell, maybe an order of fries too. “Let’s do it.” 4:15 PM “Well, well, well,” Celia says, sidling up to our table with a big grin on our face. “Not one, but two familiar faces.” “Hey, Celia,” Tommy says. She regards him: “Tommy.” Then she turns her attention to me. “Honestly, this is the more surprising face. Alfie, right?” “That’s me,” I say, my cheeks blushing a little. The last time we spoke, I was on a quest to find Anders. She had given me a little warning about The Cradle too: “Maybe it’s something in the air. Or the water.” She had observed that people who claim to just be visiting the Cradle often come back wearing diapers themselves. And, well, here I was. In a slightly soggy diaper. “I hope that, by now, you’ve found your brother, right?” she asks, her voice cloying–maybe a little smug. “Brother-in-law,” I say, as if that makes a difference. “Yeah…I found him.” “And yet you’re still here,” she says, her voice rich with snark. “Missing other family members over there too?” “I did go home,” I say. “I just…came back.” “I see that,” she says. She seems primed to ask more questions, or perhaps just to make some more witty remarks. Instead, she just smiles and shrugs. “What can I get you boys to drink?” Did she put some extra emphasis on ‘boys,’ or did I just imagine that? “Diet Coke,” Tommy says. He turns to me: “I used to live off that stuff. They don’t stock it at the dining hall though, so I have to get my fix in whenever I come to town.” I was going to just ask for some water, but Tommy actually makes a pretty good point–soft drinks aren’t readily available at The Cradle. “I’ll have a Coke.” “God, she’s cute, isn’t she?” Tommy says after Celia departs our table. “You two have a history or something?” I ask. There’s a strange coldness between Celia and Tommy–I thought I observed it the last time I was in here too, back when I first met Tommy. “Oh…she doesn’t like me,” he shrugs. “I had a little crush on her when I first came here. It took me a little longer than it should’ve to get the hint that she wasn't interested. She finally had to get pretty blunt about it. Awkward, but…lessons learned.” “Damn.” “It probably needed to happen, honestly. Like with the story I was telling you earlier–about how I was fired from my job? I think I have this habit of ignoring boundaries. I’m working on it.” I can’t help but respect that. “Good for you, man.” “Do you think The Cradle–and milk–is, like, therapy?” he asks. “I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that,” I say, laughing. “It seems therapeutic, yes. But who knows, maybe someday we’ll be getting actual therapists to help us deal with our experiences here.” “Nah,” Tommy says, gazing down at his menu. It’s got me thinking, though. Right now, it’s pretty blissful to be living my big baby life. But I already saw what happened when I went home after just a day or two at The Cradle–I was still using my diapers and clamorning to be treated like a baby. How hard would it be to adjust to ‘reality’ after spending weeks here?  “Let me ask you something,” I say. He looks up from his menu. “Yeah?” “Do you think you’ll ever leave The Cradle? Go back home or whatever?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Brother, The Cradle is home. Why would I leave?” It might be a little too early to say, but I think he might be right about that. 4:45 PM Either I’m hungrier than I thought I was, or the smell of the greasy food just tricks my brain into thinking I need to stuff something into my belly. I settled on a sandwich and some fries, which I’ve since picked clean. Across the table, Tommy has methodically worked his way through a meatball sub. The boy could use a bib, but I suppose this isn’t the place for that. Also, one of us–maybe both of us–smell like pee. As far as I can tell, nobody else seems to detect it, but I’ve been around enough pissy diapers in the last few days to know it when I smell it. Hopefully we can grab whatever visitor is arriving and be on our way soon. “What’s our ETA on whoever we’re supposed to pick up?” I ask, realizing I haven’t thought about that for a while. “As of thirty minutes ago, he’s on his way here in an Uber,” Tommy shrugs. “They probably don’t have any reception.” “An Uber? That’s gotta be an expensive trip.” “It is,” he laughs. I sense he knows this from personal experience. “But maybe she doesn’t care? A lot of babies with big pockets like to visit this time of year.” “She? Who are we picking up?” I ask. “Uh…well…” I narrow my eyes at him. I didn’t realize it until now, but he has been kind of dancing around the identity of the arriving guest. “Just tell me who it is.” “Gwendolyn O’Neil?” I can hear it in his tone–there’s something important about that name. Maybe it’s one I should recognize? It’s a little familiar. How many ‘Gwendolyns’ have I ever met or heard of? Not many. I pull out my phone and search her name.  CEO of Foxton Pharmaceuticals. “Oh,” I say. I know Foxton Pharmaceuticals, at least–the newsblog I write for did a ton of stories about the company a few years ago when there was all that drama about insider trading. A bunch of executives left–or got arrested–after that. Seeing as how Gwendolyn O’Neil is the current CEO, I have to assume she was appointed to that role after all that hooplah.  “Yeah…she’s kind of a big deal. She’s a pretty big investor in The Cradle, actually.” “That’s crazy,” I say. “How the hell does the CEO of a big company like that end up finding out about our weird little baby camp?” Tommy shrugs and repeats the little slogan he quoted earlier: “This place finds us.” I want to believe him, but something isn’t sitting well with me. On the bulletin board of my mind, I see two pins–The Cradle, and Gwendolyn O’Neil, head of a pharmaceutical company. And the red string that attaches those pins represents a monetary investment. Is that anything? Or is it just that a big powerful woman loves having a place to escape to where she can abandon her responsibilities and wet her diaper? My journalistic instinct tells me I should ask her about that later. But the wet diaper between my thighs–that I’m wetting more as I consider this–suggests that I probably won’t. Twenty-Three: A Night in the Life, Part 1 5:20 PM Gwendolyn O’Neil is tall and narrow, with a plume of blonde curly hair atop her head. She kind of looks like a very pretty paintbrush. She’s older–maybe old enough to be my mother–but she clearly takes care of herself. I imagine that that’s easier to do when you’re a CEO. She’s dressed like she’s going on vacation for the very first time in her life–and she’s wearing what she thinks people wear in more casual situations. Her dark-red capris are tight and form fitting. No room for a diaper in those things, I think. Her sleeveless top almost looks like, well, something she’d normally wear to the boardroom, but the arms were lopped off. She’s wearing heels. Heels. In a place like this. I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on Harpers Bell, but I would be curious when the last time was that someone wore heels here. “Ms. O’Neil,” Tommy says, waving his hand to her as she pulls her suitcase out of the back of the black SUV that’s delivered her here. He seems overtaken by awkwardness. He almost looks like he’s…bowing? I’m curious as to why the SUV didn’t just take her all the way to The Cradle, but I assume there’s a good reason. Maybe that’s Cradle policy? Maybe Uber just doesn’t let their drivers go to cult compounds? “Good afternoon,” she says. “Sorry to have kept you. First my flight was delayed. Then it took forever for my luggage to arrive. Then, it was a pain in the ass to get a driver who could take me here.” “Next time,” Tommy says, “Mirabelle can just have someone meet you at the airport. Then you don’t have to think about that part.” “That’s not a bad idea,” she says. “But…” She looks past Tommy and I, to his battered pickup. “That’s your vehicle?” “Well…it belongs to The Cradle, but, yeah, I use it.” “Is it safe?” “Haven’t died yet,” I say, stepping forward so that I’m at Tommy’s side. I can tell that she really wants to be cool and collected. She’s not here for business–or that’s what she’s told herself. She wants to relax. Unwind. Piss herself a little. If she were in her natural element, she’d probably have more to say about Tommy’s truck. She sighs, smiles, and nods her head. “And who might you two be?” “I’m Thomas,” Tommy says. “We might have met last year, Ms. O’Neil. But it’s a pleasure to see you again.” It’s interesting that he introduces himself as the slightly more mature-sounding ‘Thomas.’ I’m not going to do that. “Hey, I’m Alfie,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” “Likewise,” she says. “And, please, just ‘Gwen’ is fine.” This is normally when I’d break out the classic “Okay, sure, Just-Gwen,” but I don’t yet have a good enough read on her disposition yet to know how it’ll be received. “Let me take your bag for you,” Tommy says, stepping forward to take the suitcase from her. “Are you just going to…throw it in the back of your truck?” “Well, uh…yeah,” he shrugs. “Where else would we put it?” She sighs and pushes her luggage towards him. I can almost understand her frustration–maybe I wouldn’t want my nice suitcase rolling around the back of an ancient pickup as we rolled through the backroads either. But, then again, if it got a little scuffed up, couldn’t she just buy a new one? To his credit, Tommy gently eases the suitcase into the truck bed like it was an egg. I wonder how Gwen got to The Cradle last year. Surely she would’ve had an experience similar to this one, right? Another thing that neither Tommy or I thought about was seating capacity in his truck. He would’ve been fine if he hadn’t invited me to tag along. Now, the three of us are going to be stuffed into his seat. I can’t imagine Gwen’s going to be happy about that either. In fact, no sooner than I think this and she says it herself: “Are we all expected to sit in there?” “It’ll be fine,” Tommy says. “I’ve fit three people into here plenty of times.” Gwen doesn’t outright complain about this, but her little grunt says a lot. “Wait,” I say to Tommy. “What if I just hung back? I’ll stay in town and you can come get me later. And then you can even put Gwen’s bag up in the front with you two.” “You don’t have to do that,” Tommy says. “There’s plenty of room and–” But if I wasn’t sure about this before, the hopeful smile on Gwen’s face convinces me. She doesn’t want to be uncomfortable. She’s not used to being uncomfortable. I can’t fault her for that. “It’s really no big deal, man,” I shrug. “I’ve got nothing else going on today, so hanging around town sounds like a good time to me. Just, you know, don’t forget that I’m here.” It’s Gwen who speaks for Tommy: “You’re sure you don’t mind?” “Not at all. Honestly, this is a good thing.” She smiles and nods. “Thank you.” Tommy is at my side again, leaning in towards my ear. “What about your, uh, diaper? What if you need a change?” I shrug. “I dunno. You don’t happen to have an extra in the truck do you?” “Actually…” He runs over to the passenger-side door and opens it before leaning in so he can rifle through the glove box. He runs back to me with two, still folded, thick diapers in his hand. “Here, take these.” “Where the hell am I supposed to put these?” I ask.  “Uh, down your pants?”  “There’s barely room in my pants for the diaper I’m wearing,” I sigh. “If I may offer some assistance?” Gwen says from a few feet away. Clearly, however quiet Tommy thinks he’s being, it’s not quiet enough. “What’s up?” I ask, craning my neck towards her. “If you could grab my suitcase from the back of your truck, I think I have an extra tote bag in there that you can use.” Tommy does as she requests, and moments later, she hands me a tan folded-up canvas tote bag. I unfurl it, finding the logo of Foxton Pharmaceuticals printed on the side of it in light blue letters. I’m never one to walk around flaunting corporate logos and acting like a billboard, but it still seems better than carrying some big diapers around. I deposit the thick loaves of padding into the bag and give Gwen a warm smile. “Thank you.” “Thank you,” she says. It’s hard to read her smile, but I’d like to think it says “I won’t forget this.” “Alrighty then,” Tommy says. “Ready to head over?” Gwen nods her head and he helps her up and into the passenger seat before closing the door behind her. I kind of wish I could be a fly on the dashboard as they drove back to The Cradle. I’d love to hear what kinds of small talk the two of them attempted. I imagine her nose wrinkling as she catches a whiff of Tommy’s pissy diaper. Or… I sniff the air around myself. Yeah, I might be kinda pissy-smelling myself. Good thing I have some extra diapers on me. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Tommy says. “You’ve got your phone on you, right?” “Yep.” “I’ll let you know, buddy.” “Thank you again,” Gwen says from a rolled-down window. I give them both a big wave to send them off. Soon, the truck is loudly rolling down the road, leaving me behind with a cloth tote bag of diapers.  What to do. What to do. 6:10 PM I’m sitting on a bench at the edge of a small–comically small, perhaps–park not far from where Tommy’s truck had been. My phone is in my hand, with my finger hovering above the green button that will call Maxine if I just press it. I don’t know why it’s so hard to press the button. I miss her and I want to talk to her, and that feels like it should be enough.  So what am I afraid of? That she won’t want to talk to me? That she’s already moved on from me? Maybe, but I don’t think the reasons actually have anything to do with her. It might have everything to do with me, and my own anxieties. I was the guy who left a great relationship–and home altogether–to go wear diapers and suck my thumb. And to have to talk to her now means I’d have to compare my choices again. Is this infantile life better than spending time with Maxine in my apartment? My phone is calling her. I must’ve hit the button without even realizing. My heart rate quickens, and there’s a part of me that just wants to end the call. But then she answers. Even though the phone is closer to my lap, I can hear her voice emanating from it: “Why hello there, Alfie.” I sigh, drawing the phone up to my face. “Hey, Maxine.” “They let you out of your crib long enough for you to make a call, huh?” “Yeah, but it’s one of those plastic toy phones for babies,” I say. “I’m actually kind of impressed it works.” She laughs. I can just picture the way her face looks as she laughs, too. I love watching her laugh. “Seriously, Alfie, how have you been?” “I’ve been good,” I say. I love that I can be honest about that. “I’ve been really good.” “Yeah? You’re liking it there?” “Good weather. No job. No news feeds…” “No toilets,” she says, giggling to herself again. “No metal cutlery? No unaccompanied bath times?” “You laugh, but it’s all very nice.” “I’m happy for you,” she says. “You mean that?” “I mean, I want to know everything. But, yeah. I am.” “What about you?” I ask. “What have you been up to?” “College is around the corner,” she sighs. I can’t be certain if she’s excited, exhausted, or dreading this, though I suspect it’s a combination of the three. “Getting all packed up.” “How are you feeling about that?” “I dunno. I’m excited for, like, a fresh start. I like the idea of making new friends and experiencing new things. But, like, it’s also school, you know? I was sick of high school. And now I gotta do it again for another four years?” “College is different,” I say. “It’s school, but it’s school that, uh, respects you.” She laughs. “What does that mean?” I’m laughing too. “I don’t know.” “I miss you,” she says. “Yeah?” I suppose that’s the part where I say that I miss her too, but I’m actually kind of surprised to hear her say it first. “I miss you. And your cock. And your diaper.” “You don’t mean that.” “Alfie. I make myself cum every goddamn day while daydreaming about rubbing your pissy diapers until you blow your load in them.” “Shit. I wish you were here right now.” “Well, I have good news for you. Turn around. Look behind you.” My eyes widen, my breath seizes, and the entire world seems to stop as I slowly rotate my head to see…a tree. I look around the tree. There’s nobody there. On the phone, I can hear Maxine laughing. “You fucking looked, didn’t you?” “Uh…” “You totally did. So predictable.” “Alright…anyway. I wish you were actually here.” “Yeah, I do too.” About half a block away from the park, I see someone walking down the sidewalk in my direction. I don’t think much about it at first, but then I realize that they look familiar. It’s Celia, from the diner.  Is she just walking past the park? Or is she walking towards me? I realize I’ve missed a little of the conversation with Maxine while staring off at the approaching Celia. “...and that’s, you know, kind of annoying. But I guess I can’t complain too much.” “So true,” I say, having no idea what this is in regards to. “But anyway,” she says. “When are you coming home? Are you going to see me before I go to school?” “Uhm… I don’t think I’ll be back in time.” “Okay, but when are you coming home?” I don’t know how to answer that. My plan was for just two weeks…but I’m starting to think I’ll be here longer than that.  “I don’t know yet.” I expect an annoyed huff or grunt, but instead she just laughs. “Having that much fun, are you?” “Well…” “It’s okay,” she says. “You can tell me. What’s your favorite part, huh? Where someone wipes your dirty butt? The part where someone feeds you with a ba-ba?” Celia is getting closer and closer. She’s looking right at me. She’s smiling. She’s waving. Oh yeah, she definitely knows it’s me, and she’s definitely coming my way. I’d really like to be having this conversation with Maxine right now, but I’m also really curious as to what Celia’s going to say when she gets to me. I’m thinking I’ll end the call, chit-chat with Celia a little bit, and then call Maxine back.  “Hey,” I say, “are you going to be around for a bit? Because–” But Maxine continues, as if I didn’t even say anything: “You have to tell me, Alfie: How many dirty diapers do you have a day?” “I…I’d love to answer that, but…” Celia is even closer now. Forty–maybe thirty–feet away. “Have you had any tantrums yet? What happens when you get fussy? Do they swaddle you? Oh! Do they burp you? C’mon, that would be pretty cute, right?” “Hey, uh, Maxine?” She finally seems to snap out of her curious trance. “Yeah?” “Hey, are you going to be around for a while if I call you back later? Something’s come up and I got to go.” She snickers. “Did you potty in your pants, Alfie? Do you have to go and get changed.” I’m about to say ‘no,’ when I wonder if just following her lead would make this easier. “Uh, yeah, actually.” “No way,” she says, again breaking down into giggles. “How bad is it? Are you stinky?” “Y-yeah. Real stinky.” “You have the weirdest fucking life, Alfie. Okay, well, I don’t know if I’ll be around or not. But give me a call when you can. Worst case scenario you can leave a message.” “Right,” I say. “I’ll do that. Okay, bye.” I end the call without even giving her a chance to respond.  Now Celia is right in front of me with a big grin on her face. “Real stinky? Is that what you just said?” “No. I mean…yeah. But…” “Should I be concerned? Should I be standing downwind of you?” My face is bright red and hot. “That was out of context,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m…not stinky.” “Cool it,” she says. “I’m just busting your balls.” “So, are you following me?” “Nah, just going home. My shift’s over and I was walking home when I thought I saw you over here. You didn’t go back to the  farm with that Tom guy?” “He’ll be coming back to get me,” I shrug. “Eventually.” “He just left you here? Alone?” “It was a whole thing,” I sigh. “There’s reasons, but I don’t know if it’s worth explaining.” “So…what are you doing while you wait? Just chilling on this bench?” “Maybe,” I shrug. Actually... I could use her help with something. I need a place to change this wet diaper. It’s a pretty embarrassing thing to have to ask anyone, but she’s the closest thing I have to a friend at the moment, and this is her town. “Hey…I need a place to, uh, take care of something. Do you know of a public restroom where I could go and…do that? Somewhere that’s kind of private too?” She snorts a little. It reminds me of Nikki–who I imagine would have the same response. “I mean, you could go back to the diner.” I grimace and shake my head. I’ve been in that restroom, and it’s not the most private of spaces. “Well, I do know of a place that might offer you all the privacy you might need for…an issue like yours.” “Y-you don’t know what kind of issue I have.” “I bet I could guess.” “Well…don’t.” The embarrassment would be worse if she said it aloud. “And where’s the place you were thinking of?” “My place.” “Oh, no, that’s okay. I couldn’t just…” “It’s fine,” she says. “In fact, I insist you come.” “Look, that’s very nice of you, but if I just wait a little longer, Tommy’s going to be back and…” “Your friend Tommy can just pick you up from my place, then. Come on.” She walks past me, her arm reaching out and grabbing mine as she passes so that she can help hoist me up to my feet again. The idea of barging into a stranger’s home–invited or not–and changing my diaper makes me uncomfortable, but she is offering, and it does seem better than just about any other option I have right now. 6:20 PM Celia’s a brisk walker, and I have to hustle a little to keep up with her. It doesn’t help that the soggy diaper, currently rubbing against my thighs as I move, reduces my speed to a toddler-esque waddle. “Do you live alone?” I ask. “My husband’s home,” she shrugs. “Wait…” “I’m teasing,” she says, turning her head to grin at me. “Technically I live with my father. But he’s not around at the moment.” “Where is he?” I ask. It’s not my business, but I’m too curious for my own good. “He got himself a girlfriend in Burkewood. Darla. Spends all his time there these days. It doesn’t bother me–I like having the house to myself, and I’m happy for him, of course. But she’s something else. Dumb as a rock. She’s a pair of tits who bakes a lot.” “Sounds alright to me,” I say. She laughs and shakes her head. “Sorry, sorry. You didn’t ask me for any of that.” “My father’s dating my high school girlfriend,” I say. “When it comes to questionable dad-decisions, I think I can relate.” “Shit,” she says, shaking her head. “That actually makes me feel a little better about Darla.” 6:30 PM Celia, and her father’s, house is an adorable little two-story cottage on the edge of Harper’s Bell surrounded by a garden. Colorful flowers on one side and rows of healthy-looking vegetables on the other. “Is this your work? Or your father’s?” I ask. “A joint venture,” she says. “Or it used to be. Before Darla.” It’s tough to read between the lines when she mentions Darla’s name. Does she like the woman or not? The inside is quaint to the nth degree. A little cluttered, though still mostly tidy. It feels very lived in–decades upon decades of history are all around me. Warm colored rugs and furniture. Paintings of either dapper-looking people or flowers on the walls. Shelves of books and knick knacks. Plants everywhere. There’s no overarching aesthetic. No theme. It’s a place that seems built around just comfort and convenience. It’s hard not to feel at home in a place like this. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Uh, well, maybe I should take care of some things first.” “Right,” she nods. “Do you have everything you need for that? I don’t have, uh…diapers.” I sheepishly hold up my canvas tote bags. “I think I have what I need here.” It’s not completely true–I wish I had wipes and maybe some powder. But if I had to only have one thing, it’d be the diapers themselves, so I think I’ll be alright. “What do you need? The bathroom? You can use my bedroom if, like, you need more room.” My cheeks warm at just the thought of changing myself in a strange girls’ bedroom. I shake my head. “The bathroom will be perfect.” “There’s a powder room down that hallway there,” she says. “But there’s a bigger bathroom at the top of the stairs over here. It’s got a shower and towels in there too, if you need them.” “I don’t know that I need to take a shower,” I shrug. “But more space is probably a good thing.” “First door on your left,” she says 6:50 PM Here’s what I know: I’m just about helpless when it comes to changing my own diaper. I need a Mirabelle. Or a Marta or Freya. Or Patty. Or…Maxine. I know how to change a diaper, I just lack the skills, and practiced coordination, to do it well. Still, it’s a job that needs doing, and I haphazardly shed the soggy diaper and replace it with a clean one. When I’m done, it’s crooked and a little loose–but at least it’s on. Should I have another accident–and that’s inevitable–it’ll still do the job of keeping my pants clean, and that’s all I can ask for. “Thank you,” I say, returning downstairs with my tote bag in hand. “I really appreciate you letting me use your place for that.” “How’d it go?” she asks. She’s sitting on the couch, a brown-glass beer bottle in her hand. There’s another sitting on the coffee table in front of her–presumably for me. “Uh, fine,” I shrug.  “Didn’t need any help?” I narrow my eyes a little. “Are you offering?” She laughs. “Just saying–I’ve babysat almost every child in Harpers Bell. I’ve seen it all.” “You haven’t seen a grown man in diapers.” “I have,” she says. “I work at the diner. I feel like I see them almost everyday–coming and going from your little farm out there.” “Right, well…you haven’t babysat any of them.” “No,” she says. “Not yet.” I’m not sure what that means, but I take a seat in the aged blue armchair near the couch she’s on. My fresh diaper seems especially crinkly–maybe because it could’ve been applied a little tighter. “That beer’s for you,” she says. “You drink, right?” “That’ll be good,” I say, reaching to the table and taking it. “Thank you.” “So,” she says, a grin on her face. “Diapers, huh? They got to you too?” “You wouldn’t get it if you’ve never been there,” I say. “I really didn’t think it would happen to me. And then…bam. Diapered.” She laughs. “How do they do that? Brainwashing? Drugs?” “Something like that,” I smirk. “But I want to make it clear: I had a choice.” “And you chose diapers?” I nod. “Crazy, but true.” “So it’s a cult, right?” “Oh, probably,” I shrug. “Most fun cult I’ve ever been in, though.” “Look, it’s none of my business,” she says.  “You don’t want to know about what’s going on over there?” I ask. “You’re not even the tiniest bit curious?” “I’ve seen bits and pieces of a bigger picture for years now,” she says. “I’ve tried to figure it all out in the past, but I’ve kind of given up. Whatever’s going on over there, I suspect it’s not for me. And there’s something kind of nice about being oblivious to it, you know?” I nod, though I don’t know that I agree with that. “Are you hungry? Do they feed you over there?” “They feed me,” I say. “But…it’s been a while.” I’m not mad that Tommy hasn’t reached out to me yet, though I’m a little curious as to why it’s taking so long. I’m tempted to text him for an ETA, but he probably won’t get the text considering how limited service is at The Cradle.  “Well, I have to feed myself anyway,” she shrugs. “How about I whip up something for you too?” “You don’t have to do that,” I say. “Sooner or later Tommy’s going to come back and grab me.” “Well he’s not here now. And I’m not going to eat while you just watch. So how about I put food on a plate for you and you can just humor me, alright?” “What are you making?” “I think I have a pizza in the freezer. You’d eat some of that, right?” “I’ll never say no to pizza.” “Do you need me to, like, cut it into small pieces for you?” “Alright, alright, I get enough baby jokes from everyone else,” I sigh. Though, really, ‘everyone’ is just Maxine. Nikki would tease me too, if she had the chance. She laughs as she stands up. “It’s my house, so you’ll have to put up with my jokes, I’m afraid.” “It’s not your dad’s house?” “You can ask him if he ever comes back.” “Alright…fair enough.” “So, like I was saying: Do you want me to get you a bib?” 7:10 PM A text from Tommy: “Sorry it’s taking a while. Had to drag Gwen’s suitcase across the whole damn place for her. Then got tied up in helping Evie with something. Are you good if it’s a little longer?” I have no idea who Evie is. In the kitchen, Celia has just taken the pizza out of the oven and she’s cutting it into slices. I text back: “Take your time. I’m good.” 7:30 PM The pizza was good. I mean, it was a frozen pizza and pales in comparison to the ‘real’ thing, but it hits the spot. The taste reminds me of home, and the cheap frozen pizzas I keep on hand for the nights I don’t feel like cooking anything else. Which happens often. “Can I ask you something?” Celia asks when we return to the living room after finishing our food at the kitchen table. “Go for it.” “Did you, like, wet yourself again?” “Wh-why do you ask?” I have not, in fact, wet myself again. “I just smell something…off,” she says.  “And so you assumed it was me?” “Well…if it smells like pee, and you’re wearing a diaper, you can understand why I might ask you, right?” “Oh, uh…I might actually know what that is,” I say, kicking the tote bag near my feet. Inside, in addition to one still folded and clean diaper is a used one–pissy and bundled up tight. I couldn’t bring myself to stuff it in her bathroom trash can, so I figured I’d just bring it back to The Cradle with me. “Is it your old diaper? You know I have trash cans, right? Let me throw that thing away.” “I just didn’t want to stink up your trash. Do you have a can outside, maybe?” “Give it to me,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.” “I…I’m not going to give you my dirty diaper.” “I’m not concerned about cooties, Alfie. Give me the diaper, and I’ll take care of it.” I’d like to resist, but her authoritative tone smacks is pretty effective against my milk-addled brain. “If you insist.” I reach down and grab the tote bag and pull it up to my lap. I consider just giving her the whole bag, but I know that one way or another, she’s going to end up seeing the soggy diaper anyway. So I pull out the squishy little package and hold it out towards her.  “Wow,” she says, her eyes growing big at the sight of it. “That’s big.” “Well…yeah.” “Heavy too,” she says, taking it from me with both hands.  “Do you want to review it? Or do you want to throw it away?” She smiles and shrugs. “What, you don’t want to talk about your pissy diaper with me?” She pivots and walks away, going through a door near the kitchen that I presume leads to either outside or a garage–diaper in hand.  I remain in my chair, my heart racing as I process what just happened. I’m already a little on edge just from being in Celia’s home when I barely know her. And now she just…manhandled my dirty diaper? Half a beat later, she’s back in the house again. She washes her hands in the kitchen sink before sitting down on the couch near me. She looks so calm and composed–as if she does this sort of thing all the time. “Oh yeah,” she says with a little nod. “It smells so much better in here now.” I feel my cheeks reddening again. “Uh…sorry about that.” “It is what it is,” she shrugs. “I bet you’ve smelled worse than that before, right?” “N-no comment.” She looks like she’s going to say something else, but pauses and bites her bottom lip instead. She mulls something over for a moment before finally saying: “Do you like it there? Over at the farm?” “I thought you didn’t want to know anything about it.” I mean this in jest, but I am kind of curious to hear her response. “I’m not asking how it all works,” she shrugs. “I just want to know if you like it or not. Whatever that place is–whatever it does to you–does it make you happy?” I nod. “Yes. I’m happy.” Maybe that’s a sufficient enough answer, but I keep going: “It’s the kind of happiness that seems so elusive in everyday life. Good people. Good intentions. Good vibes. There’s things to do, but nobody ever seems too stressed about them.” Well, maybe Mirabelle, but that’s besides the point. “It’s the kind of place that you daydream about when you want to escape from your shitty job, or when you’re bored at home at night, flipping through what’s on TV. It’s real. It’s here. It’s…the coolest place I’ve ever been before.” She smiles and nods, though it’s hard to know if I’ve actually sold her on it or not. She’s probably seen countless people coming and going from The Cradle over the last few years. Maybe she’s seen the satisfied looks on their faces, time and time again. “I’m happy for you, Alfie.” “You’re not curious?” I ask. “Not even a little bit?” “I guess I am,” she laughs. “How could you not be, right? But I have a life here. It’s not always the most exciting life, but it’s a life that I like. And it’s all that I need.” “That’s fair,” I say.  Then I remember something. It’s simultaneously exciting and frightening.  Earlier, Mirabelle had given me a plastic baggy of those milk-induced drops. And when I changed my pants so I could go with Tommy into town, I slipped them into my pocket thinking that it might be nice to have them later–just in case. I was excited to remember I still had them with me. But I was scared to see what their current state was. Had the heat of my pocket melted them into a white formless blob? I reached into my pocket, grabbed the edge of the plastic bag and pulled it out. They were still, more or less, individual drops. A little softer, a little more squished, but they were in better shape than I thought.  “What are those?” Celia asks. I laugh. “Well… If you don’t want to go to the, uh, farm,” I say, using her colloquialism to describe it, “I could bring it to you.” “How so?” “Well…you just take one of these little guys and pop it in your mouth. And then…you’ll get a little glimpse of what I’m feeling.” Was this actually a good idea though? Was I being irresponsible? Maybe the effects of the milk weren’t mine to share.  “What does it do?” she asks. “It…it makes you feel small,” I say. I don’t know how else to describe it. “What if…you try it first. And I watch what happens to you. And if I want to at that point, then I try one.” “Yeah? I, uh, guess we could do that.” It does seem better than forcing milk on someone who doesn’t know what they’re getting into. But I also don’t know what she’s going to see if I take one myself. Is she going to watch as I drop onto the ground, filling my diaper and sucking my thumb? “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says. “If you want to just hang out while we wait for your friend to get back, I’m good with that too.” “No, of course,” I say. But…I feel the call of the milk. It seems hard to explain, but now that I know I have these drops on me–and Mother’s milk is so close to my tongue again–it’s all-consuming. “But, if you want to show me what happens when you eat one,” she says, “I am curious to see what would happen.” Well that settles it then. I pull open the bag, dip my hand in, and fetch one of the softened drops. “Just, uh… Try not to judge me too much after whatever happens next,” I say. “I just carried your dirty diaper out to the trash can,” she says. “I’d say do your worst.” “Be careful what you wish for,” I say. And down the hatch the white drop goes.