Arkansas

Kennan finished packing the tent and sat down at the fireplace to wait for Michelle. She quickly made some bread with cheese and passed a piece to Kennan. “Thanks, Priscilla,” she took the cauldron from Priscilla, put the herbs into it and hanged the cauldron above the fire. “Here you are the breakfast,” she passed the bread to Priscilla and took her own portion to eat it and sat down, too. While eating, she peed in her diaper “Priscilla, can you take the mugs and pour the tea when you finish eating, please?” Michelle turned to Priscilla.

Chapter 17 Martha pulled a notebook from a small safe in her closet.  She took out a small snub nosed pistol, a thick wad of cash, and a bundle of driver logs.  Then she pulled out a small box of jewelry that belonged to her mother, all beautiful pieces, but an emerald ring caught her eye and she put it on her finger.  “OK Martha, you can do this,” she said.  Martha looked through the bundle of driver logs and written on the inside cover was the name Benny and a few phone numbers.  The first two she dialed were disconnected, the fourth one was picked up by a woman, “Hello, DiMaggio residence?”  “Umm, hello, I’m calling for Benny DiMagio?”  Martha said. “Benny?  Who’s this?” the voice asked? There was a pause, just long enough to make Martha wonder if the line had gone dead. Then, the woman’s voice softened. “Hang on.” Muffled sounds. Footsteps. A man’s gruff voice in the background: “Who?” “Someone Hector used to know. Says it’s important.” A few more seconds passed. Then a raspy male voice came on the line, still thick with sleep or age. “This is Benny.” “Hector told me to call you if I ever needed help, and… I need some help,” Martha said. There was another long pause. “Jesus. Hector’s Martha?” Benny finally said. “He’s been dead for what, ten years?”   “Eleven actually.” “He was a good man, very punctual.  What kind of trouble could you be in?” “It’s not for me, a friend, she’s got a kid, and needs to disappear.. She needs IDs, for her and her baby.” “Are you getting scammed, like is this some Guadamalian you picked up in a Wal-Mart parking lot. “No, nothing like that.  I had a close friend who died awhile back, and this is her daughter.  She’s like my daughter now, and her kid is like my grandson.  I’ve known them for years. “Well what’s wrong, why do they gotta disappear, is the law involved,” the gruff voice asked. Martha hadn’t really thought about that, but a story formed in her mind and she went with it.  “It’s her X, he’s trying to get custody, he was abusive and she’d had enough.  He has friends back where she lived.  He’s made it look like she was abusive and they are trying to take her son.” “Huh,” Benny said.  “Sounds like a piece of shit.  20 years ago we’d  pay someone like that a visit and take care of it real quick.   “She just wants to get away from him and make a new life,” Martha explained. Another pause. Then a slow, dry chuckle. “I would have never chosen to live the life I’ve lived if it hadn’t given me the opportunity to help those who I cared for.  Your husband was a good man,  and loyal and he only asked for one thing.   Martha Delgado, it’s time I repaid that. You got a car?” “Yes.” “Drive to Sarasota. There’s a bait shop called Angelo’s. Ask for Red. Tell him you’re the one Benny owes a favor to. He’ll know what to do.  Make sure your friend is with you, he’ll need photos.” “Thank you,” Martha said quietly. “You’re gonna need cash though, is that a problem?"  Hector asked “How much cash?”   “A few thousand, Red does good work,”   Martha looked at the fat roll of 100 dollar bills Hector had left her, “That won’t be a problem.”  

Well... I'm not sure 'replaced' is the right word, but then each reader has their own interpretation. Accepting our limitations is a key lesson. As well as adapting to those limitations and dealing with them. '... the problem is with me.' I wouldn't think it's a problem. Sure, you may have different tastes than some others, but that doesn't mean it's a problem.  Not with you, me, nor any other reader. 'some venting...' We all need to do this sometimes. Constructive venting can be helpful to all. To be honest, I have only a few more plot points for this story line, it's probably going to wind up soon. Then I'll probably start something new, with a different direction. There were some ideas that just didn't fit in with this story, perhaps some you would have enjoyed, I can't be sure. But not fitting in with this particular story, so I left them out. Thanks for your compliments and your criticisms, both are useful. And I can tell both were intended sincerely.

Really? I'm surprised. Please explain 

Day 3 - Sunday – Small accident? The sun was already rising when Thomas blinked awake. A breeze slipped in through the cracked window, cool and gentle. The sounds of birds filtered in faintly from the trees lining the quiet street. For a moment, everything felt calm. Peaceful. Then he moved his legs under the covers. And froze. There was a strange, clammy sensation down the inside of his thighs. The fabric of his pajama bottoms clung to him, cold and wet. His heart lurched. He lifted the covers with shaking hands and looked down. A pale yellow stain had bloomed across the middle of the lavender sheets, soaking through his pajamas and pooling faintly on the plastic-backed mattress cover beneath. He had wet the bed. “No, no, no …” He sat up, face flushing with horror. His breath caught in his throat. He peeled back the waistband of his pajama bottoms. His underwear was soaked. There was no denying it. It wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t a spilled glass of water. It was him. The last time this had happened he’d been fourteen. Before that, a regular thing when he was younger. But this? Now? Why now? Maybe the travel. Maybe the jetlag. Maybe the multiple glasses of water with dinner and the cozy blanket and the French movie that had lulled him straight to sleep. But none of that mattered now. The bed was wet. And someone would find it, unless he fixed it. He climbed out of bed carefully, trying not to let the wet spot spread any further. The cool air hit his skin and made him shiver. He peeled off the pajama bottoms, then the underwear, wrapping them both inside the top sheet. He folded the rest of the bedding into a tight bundle and shoved it into the corner of the room. He dressed quickly in a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt, heart still pounding. A knock on the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. “Thomas ? Tu es réveillé ?” (Thomas? Are you awake?) “Uh… oui ! Je m’habille !” (Yes! I’m getting dressed!) He heard Maman’s footsteps retreat. He let out a breath. There was still time. He’d deal with the laundry later. Maybe sneak it into the hallway hamper. Maybe just leave it hidden until tomorrow. He didn’t have a plan — he just needed time. Then he picked up his phone. A WhatsApp message from his mum had come in earlier that morning. Mum: Morning, sweetheart! ☀️ How was yesterday? Send me a quick update when you have a moment. Love you. x Thomas stared at the message. His fingers hovered above the keyboard. Thomas: Hey — all good here. We visited a castle yesterday and played games with the host family. Food’s amazing. Still a bit jetlagged but doing okay 😅 Mum: Sounds wonderful. Let me know if you need anything, okay? 💙 He didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at the bear tucked beside his pillow, untouched and watching with one stitched eye slightly askew. He picked it up, gave it a squeeze, and set it down again. Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with warmth. Claire stood at the stove flipping crepes, her movements fluid. The smell of sweet batter and melted butter filled the air. Chloé sat barefoot on the counter, legs swinging slightly, glass of orange juice in one hand and phone in the other. “Bonjour, mon petit ! Bien dormi ?” Claire asked with a bright smile as Thomas entered the kitchen. (Good morning, little one! Did you sleep well?) He froze for a second, then nodded. “Oui. Merci.” She tilted her head, eyes soft. “Tu as l’air un peu fatigué… tu veux du jus ?” (You look a little tired… do you want some juice?) “Oui, s’il vous plaît,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. The conversation flowed around him in rapid French. He caught words — nuit, repos, fatigué, sucre — but only fragments. No one mentioned anything about his bedding. No one had gone into his room yet. Not yet. As they sat down to eat, Thomas focused on the crepes. Every bite was perfect — thin, sweet, delicate. He tried to act normal. But his thoughts stayed locked on the bundle of wet laundry still stuffed into the corner of his bedroom. It was only a matter of time.   Découvertes et Décisions After breakfast, the house filled with gentle movement. Chloé disappeared upstairs, still tapping on her phone. Maman stepped into the kitchen just as Thomas took the last bite of his crepe. She smiled warmly, then patted his shoulder. “Après ta douche, on va au marché. D’accord ? Juste une petite promenade.” (After your shower, we’ll go to the market. Okay? Just a little walk.) Thomas hesitated. “Uh… douche? Shower?” She mimed washing under her arms and wrinkled her nose in a playful way. “Oui, tu es un peu… comment dire… froissé ?” (Yes, you're a bit... how shall I say... crumpled?) Thomas nodded quickly, cheeks warming. “Okay. Oui.” The hot water helped. A lot. He scrubbed his skin until it felt raw, trying to erase any trace of the accident. When he stepped out and looked at himself in the fogged mirror, he looked the same. But his stomach still churned. He slipped into a clean t-shirt and shorts. As he headed back to his room, he saw Maman coming down the hall in the opposite direction. She smiled but paused just slightly as she passed. Then her brow creased. Just faintly. She turned back to sniff the air gently, then moved toward the stair railing. “Chloé… tu sens ça ?” (Chloé… do you smell that?) From downstairs, Chloé’s voice floated up, smug and casual: “Un peu… genre pipi ? C’est pas moi !” (A bit... like pee? Wasn't me!) Thomas froze in the doorway to his room. Claire glanced at him, eyes neutral. She said nothing. Just smiled faintly and walked on. At the market, the sun warmed the cobblestones, and the air smelled like fresh bread, flowers, and roasted chicken. The girls walked slightly ahead. Maman stayed close to Thomas, helping him sound out words on signs and stalls. Claire stayed close, pointing things out with slow, expressive gestures. “Poire.” She held up a pear. (Pear.) “Pain.” She mimed slicing. (Bread.) “Tomate.” She touched something red. (Tomato.) Thomas repeated each word, carefully. “Puh… poa… pain… to… mat?” Claire smiled and corrected softly. He got closer each time. She pointed. He repeated. Slowly, a rhythm built between them. After a simple lunch of baguette sandwiches and fruit juice, they returned home. Maman set a light blanket on the sofa in the living room, and Chloé retrieved the memory game again. “Allez, mon petit joueur. On révise !” (Come on, little player. Let’s review!) They played two full rounds. Thomas’s vocabulary was better — he remembered “chapeau,” “mouton,” and “fenêtre” without help. He smiled when he got it right. The girl clapped softly, encouraging him. After the third round, his eyelids grew heavy. “Oh, le bébé est fatigué ?” Chloé teased with a crooked grin. Thomas yawned. Maman appeared with a small pillow and gently patted the couch. “Tu peux te reposer un peu, chéri. Juste un petit dodo.” (You can rest a bit, sweetheart. Just a little nap.) He didn’t fight it. He curled up on the couch, the blanket tugged over his shoulders, and was asleep in minutes. Maman’s Discovery Claire waited until the house was still. When she was sure Thomas wouldn’t wake, she moved silently upstairs. His door creaked open gently. The childish bedding had been pulled halfway off the mattress in the corner. A sheet was balled tightly around something. She unwrapped it with careful hands. The pajama pants were unmistakably wet. The underwear too — no doubt about it. A large, rounded stain had soaked through to the middle of the bottom sheet, leaving it sticky and cold. Claire’s expression softened, not with judgment, but with certainty. She gathered everything quietly and took it straight to the laundry room. While the washing machine rumbled to life, she fetched fresh sheets — soft lavender, same ruffled edge — and made the bed again from scratch. She tucked the bear back against the pillow. As she smoothed the blanket, she paused to sigh softly. “Pauvre petit. Il n’a rien dit.” (Poor little one. He said nothing.) She didn’t tell anyone. Later That Afternoon… Thomas awoke to Maman gently rubbing his shoulder. “Mon petit ? Tu dors encore ?” (Little one? Still sleeping?) His eyes blinked open. She smiled down at him kindly — but her gaze flicked quickly toward the cushion beneath him. “Il faut se lever maintenant. On va dîner bientôt… et le canapé… il faut le protéger, tu comprends ?” (You have to get up now. We'll be eating soon… and the couch… it needs protection, you understand?) Thomas sat up, still groggy. “Oui,” he muttered, unsure what she meant. The couch was dry. He checked. 📱 WhatsApp — Thomas & Mum Mum: How was your Sunday, love? Thomas: Good. Chill day. We went to the market. Took a nap too, haha 😴 Mum: You sound tired. Sleeping okay? Thomas: Yeah. Comfy bed. Long days though. Mum: 😉 Love you. Thomas: I’m fine. Love you too ❤️ Evening — Dinner & Bedtime Dinner was simple — soup and slices of warm tart, with apple slices and tea. Thomas barely spoke, feeling tired and strangely heavy. No one mentioned anything. No one seemed angry or surprised. But the air had shifted. After the dishes were cleared, Thomas started toward the couch, but Maman appeared beside him with a hand on his shoulder. “Non, non. Tu es encore fatigué, je crois.” (No, no. I think you're still tired.) She gestured upstairs. “Allez, brosses-toi les dents. Et puis, au dodo.” (Go brush your teeth. Then, bedtime.) He wanted to protest. It wasn’t even dark yet. But her tone was gentle, unquestioning — and something about it made his feet move automatically. When he stepped into his room, the sight of his bed stopped him short. The covers were fresh. Neatly made. The unicorn print pillow had been turned. The bear sat right where he’d left it. And the sheets — dry. He looked around the room, then down at his suitcase. The bundle of wet laundry he’d hidden earlier… was gone. A Quiet Message Thomas gently pulled open the top drawer where Maman had suggested he keep his pajamas. The folded cotton bottoms were right where he’d left them, stacked beside his t-shirts. He reached in, but as he lifted the pajamas, something underneath rustled. He stopped. There, placed flat and folded beneath the clothes, was a white adult-sized medical diaper. No patterns, no colors — just plain, thick padding, the kind used in hospitals. Alongside it sat a small, folded piece of notepaper. He stared at it. Fingers trembling slightly, he picked up the note first. The handwriting was careful and curved — in English, not French. Thomas, This is only to help — not to embarrass. If you are still very tired tonight, this will keep the bed clean and dry. It’s your choice. I will not say anything if you decide not to wear it. Sleep well, mon petit. — Maman His face burned as he sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the note in one hand, the diaper still lying untouched on the blanket. It looked impossibly large. Strange. Too real. He glanced toward the door, then back at the diaper. He didn’t want to wear it. That was obvious. But he could still feel the wet shame of waking up in a soaked bed just hours ago. The mattress had been stripped and replaced. His laundry had been washed — and not by him. The worst part wasn’t the diaper. It was the fact that someone had known. Maman had seen it, done something about it, and said nothing. That made it worse. And somehow… more bearable. He picked it up. He’d never put one on himself before. Not even when he was little — back then, his mum or the occasional babysitter had always done it for him. Now, sitting on the unicorn sheets of a stranger’s bed in France, he fumbled with the tapes, opened the wings, and stared at it like it might explain itself. His hands trembled. It took three tries, and even then, the fit was crooked and too loose in some places, too tight in others. But eventually, he managed. He pulled his pajama bottoms over it, barely able to meet his own reflection in the mirror. The bulk was obvious, but only to him. He turned off the light and crawled under the blanket, feeling the unfamiliar thickness press between his legs. He had put it on himself. Awkwardly. Crookedly. But he had done it. Just in case. Sleep came slowly. But it came.   📧 Email — Claire to Helen Wright From: Claire Lefevre To: Mrs. Helen Wright Subject: Petit contretemps Bonsoir, Just a little note tonight. Thomas had a small accident this morning — nothing serious, perhaps just the stress or exhaustion. I took care of it discreetly and said nothing. He seemed nervous about it, but I believe showing kindness matters more than asking questions right now. He’s such a sweet boy. He learns quickly and is doing his best to speak. We played more vocabulary games today and even visited the market. He’s sleeping now — peacefully. Warmly, Claire (Maman) A Quiet Check Claire opened the bedroom door with practiced care. The boy — her boy for now — was curled beneath the blanket. One arm cradled the bear. His chest rose and fell softly. She approached silently, stopping at the foot of the bed. She didn’t lift the covers. She didn’t speak. But as she leaned just slightly closer, her trained eyes caught the faint outline beneath the blanket — the subtle swell of the padding through his pajama bottoms, the barely-there wrinkle of elastic against the waistband. She closed her eyes briefly. He had chosen safety. Even if it shamed him. Claire stepped out, gently pulled the door closed behind her, and whispered down the hall as she switched off the last light: “Demain, ce sera plus facile. Petit à petit.” (Tomorrow, it will be easier. Little by little.)