The Hive

Chapter 8
Chapter 7

The viscous, drowsy awakening came with the realization that he was wet.

Benjamin lay there, eyes closed, trying to understand what had happened. The sheet beneath him was damp and cold. The smell—from deep childhood. Familiar yet foreign at once.

"No," the thought struck like a hammer. "This can't be happening."

He jerked upright, throwing off the blanket. His pajama bottoms were soaked. And not just the bottoms. Underneath them, hugging his hips tightly, was the very thing Sara had put on him yesterday. Heavy, swollen, preventing him from bringing his legs together.

Used.

"No, no, no..." The words escaped on their own, high and panicked.

He leaped from the bed, feeling the wet padding swing between his legs. He tried to pull down his pajama bottoms, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate—trembling, tangling in the elastic band. Finally managing it, the pants fell to his ankles, revealing the diaper—yes, a diaper, no point in lying to himself—sagging, yellowed from...

Nausea rose in his throat. He rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. His stomach heaved, though it was empty—just bile and yesterday's sweet aftertaste.

When the spasms ceased, he slumped to the floor. The cold tiles burned against his bare skin. The diaper squelched with the movement, reminding him of its presence.

"How do I get this thing off?"

Velcro tabs on the sides. Silly tabs with little bees. His hands still shook, but he managed. Tore it off, crumpled it, threw it in the corner. Disgusting.

He stood, swaying. In the mirror—a stranger. Face puffy from sleep, eyes red. And his body... God, his body.

He was shorter. Definitely shorter. The sink that yesterday reached his hips now came almost to his waist. His shoulders were narrower, arms thinner. And down below...

He turned away, unable to look.

Shower. He needed a shower. To wash away the filth, the shame, this place.

The water was hot, almost scalding. He scrubbed his skin with the washcloth until it was red, as if trying to scrape off what was happening. The soap—the same one, with honey and lavender—lathered, enveloping him in its sweet aroma.

"Poison," he thought. "Everything here is poison."

But his body relaxed against his will. Hot water, soft foam, familiar scent. Safety. Care. Home.

"No! Don't give in!"

He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower. The towel was enormous—or had he become smaller? He wrapped himself in it, feeling lost in the soft fabric.

On the shelf—new clothes. Not what was there yesterday. Smaller. Brighter. A t-shirt with cartoon bees. Pants with an elastic waistband. And a stack of...

Diapers. New, clean, arranged in a neat pyramid.

"No," he said aloud. "Never."

But there was no other underwear. He checked all the drawers—empty. Only these... things.

A knock at the door made him jump.

"Benjamin?" Sara's voice. Soft, caring. "Are you awake? May I come in?"

"No!" he cried, his voice cracking into a squeak. "Don't come in!"

"Dear, I understand you're upset. This is normal. Many have... incidents after an enhanced dose. It's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about." He'd wet himself like an infant, and she was saying "nothing to worry about."

"Go away!"

"I can't leave. You need help. Clean clothes, fresh bedding. And breakfast—you must be hungry?"

His stomach betrayed him with a growl. The hunger was sharp, almost painful. When had he last eaten? Yesterday at dinner, and barely then.

"I can manage on my own."

"Benjamin," her voice grew firmer. "Don't be stubborn. Open the door, or I'll have to use my key."

She had a key. Of course she did.

He approached the door without opening it.

"Give me normal clothes. My clothes. And... and underwear. Regular underwear."

Silence.

"I'm afraid your clothes are gone. They've become too big. As for underwear... After last night's incident, the doctor recommends protection. At least for a few days."

"What doctor?!"

"Miss Hart has medical training. She examined you yesterday while you slept. Your body is going through serious changes. Temporary loss of control is a natural side effect."

"Examined while I slept." What else had they done while he was unconscious? His cheeks burned with shame.

"It's not temporary," he said hollowly. "Lucas told me. It's forever."

"Lucas says many things. Not all should be believed. Now open the door. I'll count to three. One..."

He stepped back from the door, clutching the towel tighter.

"Two..."

What would she do? Break in? Call for help?

"Three."

The click of a key. The door opened.

Sara entered with the confidence of someone used to dealing with difficult patients. In her hands—a stack of clothes and a basket of supplies.

"There's a good boy," she said, giving him an appraising look. "Good that you've washed up. Now let's get you dressed."

"I can do it myself."

"Of course you can. But I'll help. You're still weak after yesterday. The enhanced dose takes time to adjust to."

She placed the items on the dresser, took out a smaller towel.

"First, let's dry you properly."

"I said I can do it myself!"

But when he tried to step back, his legs gave out. The world tilted. Sara caught him, sat him on the edge of the bed.

"See? Your body hasn't recovered yet. This will pass, but for now let me take care of you."

Her hands were warm, movements confident. She patted his hair dry, his neck, his back. Professional. Without unnecessary tenderness, but without roughness either.

"Stand up for a moment."

He stood, holding onto her shoulder. The towel slipped away. Shame burned his cheeks, but Sara paid no attention to his nakedness. For her, this was routine.

With a practiced and confident gesture, Sara spread out the towel.

"Now let's lie down for a second."

She lifted his legs, and she put on... no, not this.

The diaper wrapped around his hips, the tabs fastened with a quiet crackle. Soft, thick, with a high waist. To the touch—like a cloud, like safety, like a cage. He felt warm fingers slip inside, gently smoothing out all the creases, and then a light pat on the front, gentle and affectionate.

"There we go, now the pants."

"Pants." Not trousers—pants.

The soft sweatpants hid the shame. Then the t-shirt—the one with the bees. Bright, cheerful, absolutely childish.

"There. Handsome boy."

She combed his unruly hair. In the mirror was reflected... a child? No, a preteen. Eleven or twelve years old. Skinny, confused, in ridiculous clothes.

"This isn't me," he whispered.

"This is you," Sara gently corrected. "Just a little different. More relaxed. More real."

"I want to go home."

"You are home, dear. Now come along for breakfast. The others are waiting."

She took his hand—a natural gesture, as if he really were a child—and led him to the door.

In the hallway, he tried to pull his hand away, but her grip was firm.

"No need to be embarrassed. Everyone goes through this."

"Through what? Through humiliation?"

"Through acceptance. Through liberation from adult constraints."

They descended the stairs. Each step was difficult—the diaper was unfamiliar, changing his gait. He had to spread his legs wider.

Almost everyone was already seated in the dining room. Michael, Robert, Amelia. And Lucas.

The boy looked... smaller. Paler. Empty eyes, mechanical movements. What had they done to him?

"Good morning!" Michael exclaimed cheerfully. "Oh, Benjamin, you too... I mean, hello!"

Robert simply smiled and waved. Around his neck was a bib, before him—a bowl of porridge and a sippy cup.

Amelia...

Amelia was different. Hair in pigtails. Blush on her cheeks. Bright clothes with ruffles. And her eyes—lost, clouded. She looked at Benjamin and seemed not to recognize him.

"Sit next to me!" She patted the chair beside her. Her voice had become higher, more melodious. "We'll eat together!"

"Eat." Yesterday she'd said "have food."

Sara led him to the table, seated him. The chair was higher than usual—or had he become shorter? His feet barely touched the floor.

"What have you done to her?" he whispered.

"Helped her relax," Sara answered, placing a plate before him. "Amelia controlled every step her whole life. Now she's learning to let go. To be spontaneous. Happy."

The porridge steamed in the bowl. Oatmeal with honey and berries.

"I won't eat this."

"You will. You're hungry, your body needs energy. And don't be fussy."

"Fussy."

He took the spoon. His hand trembled—from hunger or something else. First spoonful, second. Sweet. Too sweet. But his stomach demanded food.

"I have a new dress today!" Amelia chirped. "Look how pretty! With butterflies!"

She stood up, twirled. The dress flared, revealing... God. She was wearing one too... Pink, with cute bunnies and ruffles around the edges.

"Amelia, sit down," Sara said gently. "Finish your porridge."

"Don't want to! Want to play!"

"First breakfast, then play."

Amelia pouted but sat down. She took her spoon, began eating, swinging her legs under the table.

Lucas hadn't said a word. Mechanically eating, staring at one spot. Benjamin tried to catch his eye, but the boy seemed not to see him.

"What's wrong with Lucas?" he asked Sara.

"Adjustment. Yesterday's stress required additional correction. Don't worry, he'll be normal by lunch."

"Normal." What was even considered normal here?

After breakfast, Sara announced morning activities.

"Michael and Robert—to the playroom. Amelia—with me for drawing lessons. Benjamin..."

She considered.

"I think you should rest. Yesterday was a difficult day. Lucas, take Benjamin to the rest room. And stay with him. Keep an eye on him."

Lucas stood, nodded. Still silent, mechanical.

They went to the same room where Benjamin had first seen Robert in his childish state—with the crib, stars on the walls, the smell of baby powder.

Lucas let Benjamin enter first and slowly closed the door.

As soon as the door closed, he seemed to come alive. He leaned against the wall, slid down to the floor.

"God," he exhaled in his usual boyish voice. "I thought I wouldn't make it."

"Lucas? Are you okay?"

The boy laughed. Bitter, broken.

"Okay? I've been pretending to be a vegetable all morning. You know what she injected me with yesterday? 'Special milk.' Enhanced formula. Should have turned me into a drooling infant for several days."

"But it didn't?"

"Partially did. The first hours I... I couldn't control anything. Not thoughts, not body. Wet myself every hour. Cried when I wanted to eat. Sucked my thumb. But then... my body adapted. Three years here—you develop immunity."

He raised his head, looked at Benjamin.

"But you... God, look at yourself."

"I know."

"No, you don't understand. Yesterday you were five foot eleven. Today—five feet, maximum. In one night! That's a record even for an enhanced dose."

"But why did I change and they didn't?"

"Who?"

"Well, Michael, Amelia, and Robert. They're all the same as they were."

"Not quite," said Lucas. "I told you that people regress physically and mentally, it's just that mental regression came first for them, and physical for you, but..."

"The result is always the same..." Benjamin finished in a strangled voice and immediately continued. "But wait, you've been here three years and you're still sane."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Lucas smiled. "Yes, I'm sort of a local attraction, for some reason the honey can't break me, or rather it breaks me for a day, two... maybe a week, but then everything returns to normal. You know that regression is only possible to the age you're ready to accept, even if not consciously, so my age is eleven, and not a year younger." This sounded with some pride. "Yes, they can push me deeper into childhood, but I'll come back anyway, consciousness returns."

Benjamin sat on the floor beside him.

"What if I stop taking the honey?"

"The regression will stop."

"And I'll start growing back?"

Lucas shook his head.

"No, you'll just stay as you are now... Probably if you'd left right away, there likely wouldn't have been consequences, honey has a cumulative effect, but it's already gone too far."

"What should I do?"

"I don't know. Honestly—I don't know. The windows here don't open. Doors lock from outside. Even if you get out of the house—forest all around, in a child's body you won't make it—not enough strength."

"So that's it? I'm stuck here forever?"

Lucas was silent. Then:

"There's one way. But it's... risky."

"What?"

"Complete submission. Pretend the process is working. Become the perfect 'child.' Then supervision will relax. They'll start letting you into the garden unsupervised. And there..."

"Escape?"

"Or adaptation. Real adaptation. Many start pretending and end up... like Robert and Michael. Like Amelia will soon end. Though if you think about it, maybe it's not so bad..."

Silence. They sat side by side, barely touching shoulders.

"Why do you stay?" asked Benjamin. "Three years—you could have escaped."

Lucas pulled his knees to his chest. In this position, he looked completely like a child.

"Where to? Who needs an eleven-year-old boy without documents? To an orphanage? To new 'parents'? Or to the streets?"

He shook his head.

"Here I at least... exist. Even in this body, but with my memories. There—I'm nobody. A ghost. A mistake of nature."

"But you said..."

"I said what I wanted to hear myself. That there's a way out. That you can escape. But the truth is that some doors close forever. And mine closed three years ago when I drank my first cup of their damned tea."

Tears ran down his cheeks. Childish tears on a face with adult pain.

Benjamin awkwardly hugged him. The small body tensed, then relaxed. Lucas buried his face in his shoulder and cried for real. Not quietly, not restrainedly—sobbing, as children cry.

Or as adults cry when they have nowhere else to go.

The door opened.

"Oh," Sara stood in the doorway with a tray. "So that's how you are. Well done, Benjamin. Comforting a friend."

She placed the tray on the table. Two glasses of milk, cookies, wet wipes.

"Lucas, dear, it's all right. Crying isn't shameful. It helps release tension."

She approached, stroked the boy's head. He flinched but didn't pull away.

"Drink your milk. It will help you calm down."

"Don't," Lucas began, but his voice broke into a sob.

"You must, both of you. And Benjamin, don't forget—check-up in half an hour. If you're dry, you'll get a sticker."

"A sticker." For a dry diaper. Like a three-year-old.

She left, leaving them alone with milk and cookies.

"Don't drink it," said Lucas, wiping away tears. "There's honey in it too."

"And you?"

"And I..." he took the glass, sniffed. "I've already lost. What difference does it make?"

He drank it in one gulp. Put down the empty glass, licked his lips. A milk mustache remained on his upper lip.

"Tasty," he said with bitter irony. "Like in childhood. Which I never had. Because I only remember adult life. And childhood... childhood I'm living now. Second time. Or first?"

He took a cookie, bit into it.

"You know what's scariest? Sometimes I forget. Forget that I was an adult. I wake up and for the first seconds think—I'm a boy who lives in a big house with kind Aunt Sara. I have a garden, toys, friends. And it's happiness. Then I remember. And happiness turns to hell."

Benjamin looked at him—at the boy who was and wasn't a boy.

"But you know what?" Lucas continued. "Maybe forgetting isn't so bad. Maybe Robert is happier than me. He doesn't remember pain. Doesn't remember failures. For him, every day is a new adventure. Isn't that what we wanted? To start over?"

"Not like this. Not at the cost of our minds."

"What difference does the cost make?" Lucas stood, went to the window. Outside—garden, bees, sun. Idyll. "We all pay. Some with freedom. Some with memory. Some with dignity. You paid today..."

He didn't finish, but Benjamin understood. The diaper under his pants reminded him of its presence—warm and thick.

"It's temporary."

"Nothing here is temporary. Everything only deepens. Today—a diaper during the day. Tomorrow—a pacifier for comfort. The day after—bottle feeding because your hands shake. And in a week you won't remember why this should be embarrassing."

He turned to Benjamin.

"Want advice? Don't fight too hard. Those who fight break harder. Accept what is. Find your way to... exist."

"Like you?"

"Like me."

There was a knock at the door.

"Boys? Time for check-up!"

Sara entered with a businesslike air. In her hands—a bag of supplies.

"Lucas first. Come here, dear."

Lucas approached, head down. She pulled down his pants, checked—quickly, professionally.

"Good boy. Dry. Here's your sticker."

She stuck a sticker with a smiling bee on his shirt. Lucas looked at it with an expression of absolute emptiness.

"Now you, Benjamin."

Shame burned his cheeks. He stood while she checked. Humiliating. Unbearable.

"Also dry! Good boy! Here's your sticker."

The bee stuck to his shirt. Bright and cheerful, with a mockingly cute smile.

"And now—playtime. Let's go downstairs to the others."

She took their hands—naturally, as if it should be—and led them to the door.

The playroom was chaos. Michael was building a castle from blocks. Robert was rolling toy cars. Amelia...

Amelia sat on the floor surrounded by dolls. She was combing their hair, humming something. On her cheek—a smeared tear track.

"Here are the boys!" Sara announced. "Play nicely. Lunch in two hours."

She left, leaving them in this surreal kindergarten for adults.

Benjamin stood by the door, not knowing what to do. Play? At his age? In his condition?

But Amelia raised her head, smiled. And in that smile was so much lostness, so much plea for company, that he couldn't refuse.

He sat down beside her. Took a doll.

"What's her name?" he asked.

"Princess Sunshine!" Amelia answered joyfully. "She lives in a tower and waits for a prince. But the prince never comes. He must be lost."

She combed the doll's hair—focused, careful. As if it were the most important thing in the world.

"You know," she said more quietly, "I remember... something. An office. Numbers. Shouting. But that's not important, right? What's important is that Princess Sunshine is beautiful. And that lunch is soon. And that Aunt Sara is kind."

A tear rolled down her cheek, but she continued smiling.

"Right? That's more important?"

Benjamin didn't know what to answer. What could you answer to someone dissolving before your eyes?

He simply took another doll and began clumsily combing its hair.

And in the corner, Lucas was building something from blocks. Silently, focused. On his shirt, the bee smiled at the whole world.

Time flowed strangely. Minutes stretched into hours, hours compressed into moments. Benjamin lost track of time, mechanically playing "house" with Amelia. She commanded the plot—doll wedding, then tea party, then bedtime.

"Your doll needs to ask to go potty!" she declared at one point.

"What?"

"Well, before bed you have to! Otherwise she'll wet herself at night!"

She was absolutely serious. For her, this was an important part of the game.

"My doll... is already big," he tried.

"Nonsense! All dollies go potty! Look!"

She took her doll, led it to the corner where there was a toy potty.

"Pee-pee-pee!" she sang. "Good girl, Sunshine! Dry bed!"

Madness. But contagious madness. Because everyone around behaved as if this were normal.

A bell rang.

"Lunch!" Michael cried joyfully, dropping his blocks.

Everyone headed for the door. Benjamin stood, and then...

Warmth. In his lower abdomen, spreading across his bottom. He froze, not believing. No. Not again.

But the diaper was already absorbing the moisture, swelling, growing heavy. He hadn't even felt the urge. It just... happened.

"Benjamin?" Lucas was beside him. "Are you okay?"

"I..." his voice broke.

Lucas understood. Sympathy flashed in his eyes.

"First time during the day?"

A nod.

"It's normal. After an enhanced dose, control weakens. Let's go to Sara."

"No!"

"We have to. Otherwise you'll get a rash. Trust me, that's worse."

He took Benjamin's hand, led him to the door. The others had already left, no one saw the shame.

Sara was waiting in the hallway, as if she knew.

"Oh, dear," she said without even asking. "Don't be upset. This happens. Come, let's change you."

The changing room was nearby. Small, with a changing table, lockers, a sink. It smelled of powder and fresh diapers.

"Up on the table," Sara commanded.

"I don't..."

"Benjamin. On the table. Quickly."

The tone left no room for argument. He climbed up, feeling huge and clumsy on this pseudo-children's furniture.

She pulled his pants down to his ankles in one motion. The diaper was... yes, wet. Very.

"Oh my," she whistled. "Good thing we chose the reinforced one. A regular one wouldn't have managed."

The tabs unfastened with a loud rip. Cold air touched his skin. The shame was almost physical.

"Legs up."

He raised his legs, closing his eyes. Don't look. Don't think. This isn't happening.

Cold wipes. Thorough wiping. Powder—lots of powder.

"You're starting to get irritated. Should have said something right away."

Cream. Cool, soothing. Sara's hands were professional, quick, but somehow that made it worse. As if this were routine. Normal.

A new diaper. Thicker than the previous one.

"This is just in case. Should last until evening."

"Until evening?!"

"Well, yes. Dinner at six, then bath time. It's harmful for the skin to endure so many hours in wet conditions."

She pulled his pants back on, helped him down.

"By the way, after lunch—nap time. The body needs rest."

"I slept during the day yesterday."

"And you'll sleep every day. New routine. Now march to the dining room before the soup gets cold."

A new surprise awaited him in the dining room. His chair had been replaced with a high chair. Not quite a baby's—adapted for more weight, but essentially the same. High back, armrests, even a removable tray.

"What's this for?" he asked, freezing in the doorway.

"After such a growth spurt, you've become shorter," Sara explained. "It's uncomfortable at a regular table, you might fall. Sit down."

Everyone was watching. Michael and Robert with curiosity, Amelia... Amelia seemed to see nothing strange.

He sat. The tray clicked in front of him, locking him in. Like a trap.

The soup was served in a deep bowl with high sides. The spoon—with a thick handle, comfortable for clumsy fingers.

"If it's difficult, I'll help," Sara offered.

"I don't need help."

But his hands were shaking. From humiliation, fatigue, something else. The soup spilled, dripped onto the tray.

"Oh dear," Sara was already beside him with a bib. "Let's protect your clothes."

The bib tied around his neck. Bright, with bees. Like Robert's.

"I can do it myself!" Benjamin flared up, clumsily, childishly.

"Of course you can. But a little help won't hurt."

She took his hand in hers, guiding the spoon. The first spoonful went right into his mouth. Second. Third.

"There you go. See, together it works better."

He wanted to break free, run away, but hunger was stronger than pride. And the soup was delicious. Hot, filling, with a taste of honey.

Always this honey.

"I have a new toy!" Robert announced, pulling a stuffed bear from under the table. "Aunt Sara gave it to me! His name is Mr. Fluffy!"

The bear was almost like the one in Benjamin's backpack.

"He'll sleep with me! And protect me from bad dreams!"

"That's wonderful," said Sara. "Everyone should have a sleep friend."

She looked at Benjamin meaningfully.

"You have a teddy bear too, don't you? I saw it in your room."

A traitorous blush colored his cheeks.

"That's... an old thing."

"Old friends are the most loyal. Don't be embarrassed. Here everyone sleeps with toys."

"Everyone sleeps with toys." Adult people, still adults, or not anymore.

After soup—the main course. Mashed potatoes with cutlets. Soft food, easy to chew, easy to swallow. Dessert—fruit jelly. Trembling, sweet, melting in the mouth.

"And now everyone upstairs," Sara announced. "Nap time."

"I don't want to sleep," Amelia declared, but immediately yawned.

"Everyone wants to sleep after a filling lunch. It's natural."

They were lined up in pairs. Benjamin with Lucas, Amelia with Robert, Michael alone.

"Why in pairs?" asked Benjamin.

"It's calmer," Lucas answered. "Some are afraid to sleep alone. After... changes."

They walked holding hands.

"We're not sleeping in our room?" Benjamin asked with surprise.

"No," Lucas answered. "Sara said it would be better for us to rest in the regression therapy room today, it'll be more comfortable for you there now."

Benjamin bit his lip at that word... regression therapy, how sarcastically that sounded now.

The room greeted them with dim light. As before, there was a crib with sides, a children's one, but sized to fit an adult and especially a twelve-year-old boy.

"I'll keep watch," said Lucas, settling on the small sofa in the corner. "In case you... need help."

Sara helped Benjamin undress. Day clothes changed to pajamas—soft, with feet. And, of course, diaper check.

"Still dry. Good boy. But just in case..."

She took out a bottle of milk.

"Drink this before sleep. It will help you relax."

"More milk with honey?"

"What else? The most beneficial for a growing body."

"Growing." He wasn't growing—he was shrinking.

But he had no strength to argue. The morning hysteria, the humiliation with changing, this surreal lunch—everything crashed down at once.

He lay in the crib. The mattress embraced his body, the blanket was a weightless cloud. The bottle in his hands—warm, comfortable. The nipple soft...

No. He wouldn't drink from a bottle. This was the last line.

Lucas lay on his bed.

"Don't fight," he whispered. "You'll tire yourself out fighting and break even harder."

Sara turned off the main light, leaving only the nightlight. Stars on the ceiling began to glow softly.

"Sleep, boys. I'll come in two hours."

The door closed. The lock clicked.

They were locked in.

"Lucas?"

"Mm?"

"What happens next? After I..."

Silence. Then:

"I don't know. Some stay here. Some are sent... to families."

"What families?"

"Ones that want children. Special children. Who will never truly grow up."

Horror.

"Is that true?"

"I don't know. But guests disappear. They say—'graduated.' But where to? In what form?"

The bottle was still in his hands. The milk was cooling.

"Drink," said Lucas. "Otherwise Sara will come back and force-feed you. Trust me, that's worse."

Benjamin unscrewed the nipple.

But the milk was delicious. Sweet, soothing. With each swallow, his body relaxed, thoughts slowed.

"There you go," Lucas murmured sleepily. "Good boy."

"Good boy." From whom—from a boy who was pretending himself?

But he didn't want to object. He wanted to drink warm milk and look at the stars.

Benjamin put the bottle on the nightstand and fell onto the pillow. He wanted someone to say everything would be all right.

Sleep crept up unnoticed.

He's small. Very small. Standing in a huge room full of toys. But the toys aren't interesting. He's looking for something. Someone.

"Mommy?"

The voice is thin, squeaky. A three-year-old's? Younger?

"I'm here, sunshine."

Eleanor Hart enters the room. Huge, like a giantess. She bends down, extends her arms.

"Come to me."

He runs. Little legs get tangled, he falls. It hurts. Tears.

"Oh no, did my boy fall?"

She picks him up. He's so light in her arms. Presses him to her, rocks him.

"It's all right. Mommy's here. Mommy will always be here."

Warmth. Safety. Home.

But something's wrong. Something screams inside—this isn't your mommy! You're not a child! Run!

"Shh," she presses his head to her shoulder. "Don't think. Just be little. It's so easy."

And he relaxes. Because fighting is too hard. And being little is easy.

So easy...

He woke because he'd wet himself.

Again.

The warm moisture spread, the diaper swelled, forcing him to spread his legs wider. But this time there was no panic. Only tired resignation.

Lucas was stirring nearby. Also awake.

"Hey," he whispered. "How are you?"

"Wet," Benjamin answered. What was the point of lying?

"It's the milk... Relaxes everything. Including the bladder. Don't worry, I'm not back to normal yet either."

They lay in wet diapers, looking at the glowing stars. Absurd. Nightmare. Reality.

"You know what?" said Lucas. "The first week I cried every night. Quietly, so they wouldn't hear. I thought—this is hell. This is the end. And then... I got used to it. People get used to everything."

"Even to this?"

"Especially to this. When there's no choice."

The door opened. Sara with a changing bag.

"Awake? Excellent. Time to change and get ready for evening activities."

She approached the cribs, lowered the sides.

"Who's first?"

"Me," Lucas volunteered. "Benjamin is still... embarrassed."

"Nonsense. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. But fine, we'll start with you. You'll probably be able to do without it tomorrow."

She changed Lucas quickly, routinely. The boy didn't resist, didn't close himself off. Accepted it as given.

Then it was Benjamin's turn.

This time he didn't fight. What was the point? He lay while she did her work. Cold wipes, powder, cream. A new diaper—again thick, "reinforced."

"The irritation is passing. See how good it is that we noticed quickly. Now get dressed. Downstairs you have a surprise waiting."

The surprise was in the living room.

A new TV—huge. On screen—cartoons. Bright, colorful, with a simple plot.

Everyone was already sitting on the floor on cushions. Michael hugging a stuffed rabbit, Robert—his new bear. Amelia braiding her doll's hair, glancing at the screen.

"Sit down, boys," Sara pointed to free cushions. "Cartoons until dinner. Today's a marathon of 'Buzzy Bee Adventures.'"

Buzzy Bee was an animated beauty with big eyes and a squeaky voice. She flew around the garden, helped friends, learned important lessons about friendship and obedience.

Children's content for adult children.

But strangely—it was captivating. Simple plot, bright colors, predictable jokes. The brain shut off, following the adventures.

"Look, Buzzy found honey!" Robert exclaimed joyfully.

"Shh," Amelia hissed. "Don't talk or we won't hear!"

They sat on the floor and watched cartoons. And somewhere between the third and fourth episode, Benjamin caught himself smiling at the bee's jokes.

Dinner. Bath time. Bedtime.

Rituals that were becoming familiar.

In the bathroom, Sara washed him like a child. He stood in warm water while she soaped him with a washcloth—back, chest, legs. He didn't resist. He was tired of resisting.

"Head back."

"No tears" shampoo ran through his hair. It smelled of honey and chamomile.

"Close your eyes tight."

Water washed away the foam. Cleanliness. Freshness. And strange calm.

Pajamas waited on the hook. Soft, with long sleeves and pants. And of course, a night diaper—even thicker, with teddy bears and stars.

"This is for the whole night. We'll change in the morning. I hope you won't lose any stars during the night," said Sara, fastening the tabs.

A surprise waited on his bed. His bear sat on the pillow.

"Where did this..."

"I found it in your backpack," Sara smiled. "I thought you'd sleep more peacefully with a friend."

She was right. Holding the bear, pressing it to his chest—it gave an illusion of control. Something of his own in this strange world.

"Good night, Benjamin. Sweet dreams."

A kiss on the forehead. Lights out. Door closed.

He lay in the darkness, hugging the bear. The diaper was dry and didn't remind him of its presence yet. But he knew—by morning that would change.

As everything else would change.

Day by day. Drop by drop. Until nothing remained of Benjamin Wilson, thirty-year-old copywriter.

Only a boy with a stuffed bear.

Who didn't even remember who he once was.

Tears ran down his cheeks. Childish tears—light, without bitterness. Because bitterness requires understanding of loss.

And he was already beginning to forget what exactly he was losing.