Walsh Family Universe V2

The ankle monitor went back on the day Ash was discharged from the hospital. The probation officer who installed it was a different one this time—younger, less sympathetic. She didn't make small talk while she secured the device around his leg. Just tightened it, tested it, handed him a pamphlet about the rules.

"You know the drill," she said. "Perimeter is house only. No yard. No driveway. You leave the designated area, police are notified automatically. Any questions?"

Ash shook his head. He was too tired to ask questions. Too tired to feel anything but the weight of the device on his ankle and the weight of the decision hanging over his head.

Seven to ten years, or sixteen years as a toddler.

Prison, or infantilization.

Hell, or a different kind of hell.

"Good luck," the probation officer said, though her tone suggested she didn't think luck would help much.

Patrick drove him home in silence. Shannon had gone ahead earlier to "prepare"—which Ash suspected meant removing anything he could potentially use to hurt himself. Pills, razor blades, sharp objects. They'd done it before, after the second overdose. He wondered if they'd taken his art supplies too, the X-Acto knives and scissors.

The house looked the same when they pulled into the driveway. Same suburban normalcy, same carefully maintained lawn, same mailbox with the family name painted on it in Shannon's careful script. Like nothing had happened. Like everything hadn't just imploded.

Ash followed his father inside. Shannon was in the kitchen, arranging food on the counter—crackers, cheese, fruit. Like Ash was a guest who needed hosting instead of a prisoner returning to his cell.

"I made you a snack," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "In case you're hungry."

"I'm good." Ash headed for the stairs.

"Ash—"

"I just need to lie down, Mom. Is that okay? Am I allowed to do that?"

Shannon flinched. Patrick put a hand on her shoulder.

"Go ahead," Patrick said. "Dinner's at six. We'll talk then."

Ash climbed the stairs, each step feeling like a monumental effort. His room was exactly as he'd left it—bed unmade, sketchbook still open on the desk, clothes tossed over the chair. For a moment, he thought maybe Shannon hadn't sanitized everything after all.

Then he opened his desk drawer. Empty. All his X-Acto knives gone. His scissors gone. Even the stapler was missing.

He checked the bathroom. No razor. No nail clippers. The medicine cabinet was completely empty except for Band-Aids and Neosporin.

Ash sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands. Tried to remember what it felt like to be trusted with sharp objects. Tried to remember what it felt like to be trusted at all.

His phone was on the nightstand—they'd given it back to him at the hospital, though he suspected they'd gone through it first. He picked it up, scrolled through the messages he'd missed.

Twenty-three texts from Jordan, ranging from concerned to angry to desperate.

dude r u ok

why arent u answering

ur parents hate me now

look im sorry about what i told them but what was i supposed to say

i didnt think youd actually OD

call me when u can

seriously we need to talk

The last one was from that morning: heard ur getting out today. we should meet up

Ash stared at that message for a long time. Jordan wanted to meet up. Jordan, who'd either shot him up while he was unconscious or was the world's most convenient scapegoat. Jordan, who'd lied to his parents, who'd painted Ash as the one who'd wanted to use.

Jordan, who was the only person who knew the truth.

Ash typed: You shot me up while I was sleeping

He stared at the message. Deleted it. Typed: Why did you lie to my parents

Deleted that too. Finally settled on: I'm not supposed to contact you

The response came immediately: fuck what ur supposed to do. we need to talk

Ash: About what

Jordan: about what really happened. about what im gonna say if anyone asks

Ash felt something cold settle in his stomach. That sounded a lot like a threat.

Ash: What do you mean

Jordan: i mean we should probably get our stories straight dont u think

Jordan: unless u want me telling people u begged me for it

There it was. The confirmation Ash had been dreading. Jordan knew what he'd done. And he was willing to keep lying about it unless Ash... what? Played along? Took the fall? Kept his mouth shut?

Ash's hands shook as he typed: You did this to me. While I was asleep. And now you're threatening me?

Jordan: im not threatening anyone calm down

Jordan: im just saying we should both tell the same story

Jordan: unless u want this to get messy

Ash wanted to throw his phone across the room. Wanted to scream. Wanted to find Jordan and—

And what? He was wearing an ankle monitor. He couldn't leave the house. He had no proof. No witnesses. Nothing but his word against Jordan's, and his word was worth exactly nothing.

He deleted the text thread. Blocked Jordan's number. It wouldn't change anything, but it felt like doing something.

A knock on his door. "Ash? Can I come in?"

Cathy's voice. Ash quickly locked his phone and set it aside.

"Yeah."

Cathy opened the door slowly, like she was afraid of what she might find. She looked older than the last time he'd seen her—more tired, more worried. The weight of being the sibling who actually tried to maintain relationships with everyone.

"Hey," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that."

"Because we care." Cathy sat on the edge of his desk chair. "I'm not here to lecture you or give you the tough love speech or whatever. I just wanted to see how you're doing."

Ash appreciated the honesty of it, at least. "I'm doing shitty. But you probably figured that out."

"Yeah." Cathy was quiet for a moment. "Mom and Dad told me about the options. The program."

"And?"

"And I don't know what to think about it. It sounds insane."

"It is insane."

"But so is seven to ten years in prison."

"Also insane," Ash agreed. "Apparently those are my choices. Insane or insane."

"What are you going to pick?"

Ash laughed, bitter. "I don't know. What would you pick? If someone told you they were going to turn you into a toddler for the next sixteen years, but the alternative was a decade in prison, what would you choose?"

Cathy considered it seriously. "I think... I think I'd choose the program. Prison is dangerous. People die there. People get hurt. And addiction—addiction doesn't just go away because you're locked up. You'd probably come out worse than you went in."

"So you think I should let them turn me into a baby."

"I think you should choose the option that keeps you alive and gives you the best chance at a real future." Cathy leaned forward. "I know it sounds awful. I know it sounds like a horror movie. But Ash... you almost died. Again. How many more times can you survive this?"

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"Because it's true. And I know you don't think you used that night. I know you think Jordan did something to you. But even if that's true—even if he really did shoot you up without your permission—you still put yourself in that situation. You still made choices that led to that moment."

"Jesus Christ." Ash stood up, started pacing. "Why does everyone keep saying that? Like it makes what Jordan did okay? Like I deserved it because I made bad choices?"

"That's not what I'm saying—"

"It's exactly what you're saying. 'Even if Jordan drugged you, you still chose to be there.' Well, guess what? I also chose to try to stay clean. I chose to do twenty-six days. I chose to go to meetings and see the counselor and do everything right. And the one time I made one bad choice—going to see a friend—it erased all of it. All of it. And now everyone looks at me like I'm the problem, like I'm the one who can't be trusted, like I'm the one who—"

"You are the one who can't be trusted," Cathy said quietly.

Ash stopped pacing.

"I'm sorry," Cathy continued. "I know that's harsh. But Ash, you've lied to us so many times. You've stolen from us. You've promised to stay clean and then relapsed. You've made excuses and blamed other people and convinced us to give you one more chance over and over again. So yeah, when you say 'Jordan shot me up while I was sleeping,' it's really hard to just accept that at face value. Not because we think you're a bad person, but because we've been down this road before. Too many times."

Ash sat back down on his bed, deflated. "So that's it. I've used up all my credibility. No matter what I say now, nobody will ever believe me again."

"I didn't say I don't believe you. I said it's hard to believe you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Cathy stood up, moved to sit next to him on the bed. "Look. I don't know what really happened that night. I don't know if you're telling the truth or if you're lying to yourself or if it's something in between. But I know that you're facing a really serious decision. And I know that whatever you choose, it's going to define the rest of your life. So I'm not here to tell you what to do. I'm just here to remind you that we love you. All of us. Even when you make it really fucking hard."

Despite everything, Ash felt a smile tug at his lips. "You said 'fucking.'"

"Yeah, well, this situation warrants it." Cathy bumped her shoulder against his. "Have you talked to Eden?"

"Eden's at school."

"She wants to come home. Mom told her not to, that you need space or whatever, but she's freaking out. You should call her."

"And tell her what? 'Hey, little sister, I might be a toddler the next time you see me, hope your freshman year is going well'?"

"Tell her you love her. Tell her you're okay. Tell her something so she stops texting me at two in the morning asking if you're alive."

Guilt twisted in Ash's stomach. Eden. His baby sister, who'd just started college, who was supposed to be having the time of her life instead of worrying about whether her older brother was going to die.

"I'll call her," he said.

"Good." Cathy stood up. "I should go. But Ash? Whatever you decide about the program, I'll support you. We all will. Okay?"

"Even if I pick prison?"

"Even then. It's your choice. Your life. We'll just... we'll be here. However we can."

She hugged him before she left. Ash let himself lean into it, just for a moment, before pulling away.

After she left, he picked up his phone and stared at Eden's contact info for a long time before finally pressing call.

She answered on the first ring. "Ash? Oh my God, Ash, are you okay?"

"Hey, Eden."

"Don't 'hey Eden' me. Are you okay? Mom won't tell me anything except that you're out of the hospital and back at the house and I've been losing my mind—"

"I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm just... home."

"What happened? Everyone's being so weird about it. Claire told me something about Jordan's apartment and an overdose but she wouldn't give me details and—"

"I went to Jordan's. I fell asleep. I woke up overdosing. They gave me Narcan. I'm fine now."

"You fell asleep and woke up overdosing? Ash, that doesn't make sense."

"I know."

"Did you—" Eden's voice got smaller. "Did you use?"

"No. Jordan did something to me. While I was sleeping. But nobody believes me."

"I believe you."

The simple certainty of it hit Ash like a physical blow. "You do?"

"Of course I do. You're my brother. If you say you didn't use, you didn't use."

Ash felt his eyes burning. "Everyone else thinks I'm lying."

"Everyone else wasn't there. I know you, Ash. I know when you're lying and when you're not. And you're not lying about this."

"Thank you." His voice cracked. "Thank you for believing me."

"What's going to happen now? With court and everything?"

Ash took a breath. "I'm facing mandatory sentencing. Seven to ten years. But there's this program..."

He explained it as simply as he could. The Fresh Start Initiative. The physical regression. The reparenting. Sixteen years as a child again.

Eden was silent for a long time after he finished.

"Eden?"

"That's the most fucked up thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah."

"They can't seriously expect you to choose that."

"It's that or prison."

"Prison sounds better."

"Everyone keeps telling me prison will kill me."

"And being a toddler won't?"

Ash laughed despite himself. "I don't know. Maybe? The success rates are supposedly good."

"Success rates for what? Turning you into a compliant robot who does whatever they say?"

"For staying sober. For not dying."

"Ash." Eden's voice was fierce. "You can stay sober without being turned into a baby. You were doing it. You made it twenty-six days. That's not nothing."

"It wasn't enough."

"Because someone drugged you! That's not your fault!"

"Try telling the court that."

"I will. I'll testify. I'll tell them what Jordan did."

"You weren't there, Eden. You don't actually know what happened."

"But you do. And I believe you."

Ash closed his eyes. "I wish that was enough."

They talked for another twenty minutes. Eden cried. Ash tried not to. By the time they hung up, Ash felt simultaneously better and worse—better because someone believed him, worse because it didn't actually change anything.

His sentencing was in two and a half weeks. He needed to decide.

Prison or the program.

Thirty-one to thirty-four years old when he got out, or eighteen again.

A decade of danger and untreated addiction, or sixteen years of complete dependence and control.

He didn't know which was worse.

He was starting to think it didn't matter.

---

The days blurred together. Ash spent most of his time in his room, only coming down for meals that he barely touched. Shannon tried to engage him in conversation. Patrick tried to get him to read through the program materials. Ash did neither.

He couldn't stop thinking about Jordan's texts. About the casual threat underneath the friendly words. About how easy it would be for Jordan to destroy what little credibility Ash had left.

On day five, Patrick made him meet with a lawyer—a different one from before, someone who specialized in the Fresh Start Initiative cases.

Her name was Sarah Kim, and she was younger than Ash expected, sharply dressed, with the kind of confidence that suggested she'd done this many times before.

"I've reviewed your case," she said, sitting across from him in his father's home office. "You're actually a good candidate for the program. Age twenty-four, non-violent offenses, family support, history of addiction. The court will likely approve it if you request it."

"And if I don't request it?"

"Then you're looking at mandatory sentencing. Your lawyer can argue for leniency, but given your violation history..." She shook her head. "Seven years minimum is almost certain."

"What about house arrest again? Or intensive rehab?"

"You violated house arrest. And you've been through rehab three times already. The court sees those as failed interventions. They're not going to offer them again."

"So it's really just these two options."

"Yes." Sarah leaned forward. "I know the program sounds extreme. But I've represented over forty families through this process. The outcomes are genuinely positive. Ninety-two percent success rate for long-term sobriety. Participants who complete the program and reach eighteen again have significantly better life outcomes than those who go through traditional incarceration."

"What about the eight percent who don't succeed?"

Sarah hesitated. "Some struggle with the adjustment. Some families aren't equipped to handle the demands of the program. In those cases, participants are typically moved to state facilities, which provide more structured support."

"State facilities," Ash repeated. "That's a nice way of saying orphanages for regression cases."

"They're not orphanages. They're specialized care facilities."

"Where you live if your family gives up on you."

"Or if the family situation becomes unsafe or unsustainable." Sarah pulled out a tablet, brought up some documents. "I want to show you some testimonials. People who went through the program and came out the other side."

She showed him videos. Young adults—well, people who looked like young adults now—talking about their experiences. Most of them were carefully scripted, clearly approved by the program administrators. They talked about second chances. About beating addiction. About grateful they were for families who stood by them.

None of them talked about what it felt like to be an adult trapped in a toddler body. None of them talked about the humiliation, the loss of autonomy, the years of childhood repeated under watchful eyes.

"These are the success stories," Ash said. "Where are the people who didn't make it?"

"The program has strict privacy protocols—"

"Where are they?"

Sarah closed her tablet. "There have been some difficult cases. Some participants who struggled significantly with the mental health aspects. Some who needed to be removed from family care. A small number who..." She paused. "Who didn't survive the program."

"Didn't survive as in killed themselves?"

"In most cases, yes. The psychological strain was too much. But again, these are outliers. The vast majority of participants complete the program successfully."

"Unless they're in the eight percent who get sent to state facilities to be raised by strangers."

"Or unless they're in the ninety-two percent who rebuild their lives completely." Sarah's voice sharpened. "Mr. Walsh, I understand your hesitation. But let me be very clear about your alternative. State prison for drug offenders is not a safe place. You would be at high risk for violence, sexual assault, and continued drug use through smuggling networks. Your addiction would not be treated. Your mental health would deteriorate. And when you were released seven to ten years from now, you would have no job prospects, no support system, and a high likelihood of reoffending within a year. Those aren't scare tactics. Those are statistics."

"At least I'd be an adult."

"Being an adult doesn't help you if you're dead."

Ash flinched.

Sarah's expression softened. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to bully you into this decision. But I need you to understand what you're actually choosing between. This isn't 'dignity' versus 'indignity.' This is 'survival with a path forward' versus 'very likely death.' That's the real choice."

After she left, Ash sat in his father's office and stared at the wall. At the law degrees framed there, the certificates, the evidence of Patrick Walsh's successful life.

His father had been twenty-five when Claire was born. Established career, married, buying their first house. Living an actual adult life.

Ash was twenty-four and choosing between prison and diapers.

How had everything gone so wrong?

---

On day ten, Shannon brought him printed materials from support groups. Forums where parents of regression program participants shared their experiences. Advice about managing the early months. Discussions of challenges and breakthroughs.

Ash read through them mechanically. Saw phrases like "resistance phase" and "acceptance milestone" and "successful integration." Saw parents talking about their adult children like they were actual toddlers, discussing potty training and discipline strategies and sleep schedules.

One post stood out: It's been 3 years since our son entered the program (he's 5 now, physically). I won't lie—the first year was hell. He fought everything. We had to use the compliance implant multiple times a day. He was angry and grieving and we all struggled. But somewhere around month 18, something shifted. He started accepting his situation. Started engaging with us. Started being present in his new life instead of constantly fighting it. Now, at 5, he's a happy kid. He plays with his toys. He laughs. He's still our son, but he's also... healing. The addiction is gone. The trauma is being addressed. We have our child back, and he's going to have a real future. Worth every difficult moment.

Ash read it three times. Tried to imagine himself at five years old. Physically five but mentally twenty-nine. Playing with toys. Being "a happy kid."

It sounded like brainwashing.

It also sounded like survival.

He didn't know which it was.

---

On day twelve, Patrick sat him down for a formal discussion.

"I need to know where you're leaning," Patrick said. "The lawyer needs to prepare. We need to make arrangements if you're choosing the program. We're running out of time."

"I don't know."

"Ash—"

"I don't know, Dad. I don't know which option is worse. They both sound like death sentences. Just different kinds."

Patrick was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Do you remember when you were seven? You got lost at the mall."

Ash blinked at the non sequitur. "What?"

"You were seven. We were at the mall, Christmas shopping. You wandered off. We couldn't find you for twenty minutes. Your mother was hysterical. I was checking every store, asking security for help. And then we found you in the food court, eating ice cream that some kind stranger had bought you. You weren't scared at all. You thought it was an adventure."

"I don't understand what that has to do with—"

"You weren't scared because you knew we'd find you. You had complete faith that we would show up, that we would take care of you, that you were safe no matter what." Patrick's voice roughened. "That's what we're offering you now. The certainty that we will be there. That we will take care of you. That no matter how hard it gets, you're safe with us."

"By turning me into a seven-year-old again."

"By giving you a chance to start over. To heal. To build a life that isn't defined by addiction and court dates and hospital visits." Patrick leaned forward. "I know you're angry. I know you feel betrayed. I know you think we don't believe you about Jordan. But Ash, whether Jordan drugged you or whether you chose to use that night doesn't change the fact that you need help. Real help. The kind you can't get in prison."

"I needed help twenty-six days ago. I was asking for help. I was asking for more freedom, for trust, for a chance to prove myself. And you said no."

Patrick's jaw tightened. "And you snuck out anyway."

"Because I'm twenty-four fucking years old and I shouldn't need permission to see a friend!"

"You're a twenty-four-year-old addict with multiple overdoses and a pattern of self-destructive behavior. Yes, you need supervision. Yes, you need boundaries. I'm sorry that feels unfair to you, but that's the reality of where we are."

"The reality of where you put me."

"The reality of where your choices put you," Patrick corrected. "Every choice you made led to this moment. Every time you used, every time you lied, every time you broke trust—you built this cage yourself, Ash. We're just trying to figure out how to get you out of it."

Ash stood up. "I'm done with this conversation."

"We're not done—"

"Yeah, we are. Because every conversation ends the same way. With you telling me it's all my fault. With you reminding me that I can't be trusted. With you acting like sixteen years as your toddler is a gift instead of a punishment."

"It's not a punishment—"

"Then what is it?" Ash's voice rose. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you want to erase sixteen years of my life and start over. Like you want a do-over. Like maybe if you raise me again, you can get it right this time and I won't turn out to be such a disappointment."

"That is not—" Patrick stood as well, color rising in his face. "We are trying to save your life."

"By destroying it!"

"You already destroyed it!" Patrick's voice boomed through the office. "You destroyed it with heroin and theft and lies and overdoses. You destroyed it by throwing away every chance we gave you. You destroyed it by choosing drugs over your family, over your health, over your own goddamn life. We're not destroying anything, Ash. We're trying to salvage what's left!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shannon appeared in the doorway, face pale. "Patrick—"

"No." Patrick held up a hand. "He needs to hear this. He needs to understand that we didn't create this situation. He did. And now he has to live with the consequences."

Ash felt something break inside him. Something that had been cracking for weeks, maybe months, maybe years.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I destroyed my own life. I made every bad choice. I fucked everything up. And now I get to choose how I pay for it." He looked at his father. "And you know what? Prison sounds better. At least in prison, I get to be an adult. At least in prison, nobody's going to pretend they're doing me a favor."

"Ash—" Shannon moved toward him.

"I'm choosing prison. That's my decision. Seven to ten years. I'll do the time. And when I get out, maybe I'll get to live my own life for once without everyone watching every move I make and telling me it's for my own good."

He walked out of the office, past his mother, up the stairs to his room. Slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Shannon looked at Patrick. "What did you do?"

"I told him the truth."

"You pushed him toward the worst option."

"I told him the truth," Patrick repeated, but his voice wavered. "He needed to hear it."

"He needed support. He needed compassion. Not—" Shannon gestured helplessly toward the stairs. "Not that."

Patrick sank back into his chair. Put his head in his hands.

"What if he's serious?" Shannon whispered. "What if he really chooses prison?"

"Then he chooses prison."

"Patrick—"

"I can't force him to choose the program, Shannon. I can't make him want to live."

"So we just let him go to prison? Let him die there?"

Patrick looked up at his wife, and for the first time in weeks, he looked uncertain. Lost. "I don't know what else to do."

---

Ash lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine seven years in prison.

Tried to imagine surviving it.

Tried to imagine coming out on the other side.

He couldn't. Every scenario he played out in his head ended badly.

But at least it ended as him. As Ash. As an adult making adult choices, even if those choices led to adult consequences.

The alternative—sixteen years of regression, of dependency, of being "raised right" this time—felt like erasure. Like dying slowly and being replaced by someone else. Someone compliant and grateful and forever infantilized.

He'd rather die quickly in prison.

Wouldn't he?

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: this is jordan. got a new phone. we still need to talk

Ash stared at the message. Thought about replying. Thought about confronting Jordan, demanding the truth, forcing him to admit what he'd done.

But what would be the point? Jordan would just lie again. And even if he admitted it, even if he confessed to everything, it wouldn't change Ash's situation.

He deleted the message. Blocked the new number.

Made his choice.

Prison. He was choosing prison.

He'd tell his parents tomorrow. Tell the lawyer. Accept the sentence.

Seven to ten years.

He could survive that.

Probably.

He had to believe he could survive that.

Because the alternative—spending the next sixteen years in diapers, being spoon-fed, being disciplined like a child, losing every shred of autonomy and dignity—

That wasn't survival.

That was something worse than death.

Ash closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Tried not to think about the sentencing hearing in a week. Tried not to think about prison cells and violence and the statistical probability that he wouldn't make it out alive.

Tried not to think about the fact that somewhere deep inside, he wasn't sure he wanted to make it out alive.

Tried not to think about anything at all.

It didn't work.

Nothing worked anymore.