Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 13
Week Two

Monday morning arrived with the now-familiar routine. Wake up wet. Diaper change. Breakfast. The rhythms were becoming automatic in a way that made Ash's skin crawl.

But he cooperated. Said "yes, Mommy" and "no, thank you" and let Shannon dress him in overalls with a truck embroidered on the front pocket.

"Daddy had to go to work early today," Shannon explained as she carried him downstairs. "So it's just you and me. We're going to have a nice, quiet day together."

Just the two of them. No Patrick to break up the routine. No end time when someone else came home.

Ash felt a flutter of something close to panic but pushed it down. Cooperate. Survive. Don't think about the hours stretching ahead.

After breakfast, Shannon set him up with blocks in the living room while she did some tidying. Ash built a tower—taller than yesterday's, actually, his small hands getting better at the precise stacking required.

He knocked it down.

Built it again.

The motion was meditative. Mindless. His hands moved automatically while his thoughts drifted.

He thought about his apartment—his real apartment, before everything. The one-bedroom with shitty heating and water stains on the ceiling but big windows that caught morning light. His art supplies scattered across every surface. The mattress on the floor that had seemed bohemian but was really just broke.

How long ago had that been? Weeks? Months?

Actually—just over two weeks. Fourteen days since the courtroom. Nine days since the procedure.

Nine days as Noam.

It felt longer. Felt like forever.

"Noam? Sweetie, did you hear me?"

Ash blinked. Shannon was standing in front of him, holding his sippy cup.

"Sorry. What?"

"I said it's snack time." She sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. "Come have your juice and crackers."

Ash climbed up—the motion was getting easier, he noticed with dismay. His body was learning the mechanics of being small.

Shannon handed him the sippy cup and a small bowl of animal crackers. Ash took them automatically.

"You were really focused on those blocks," Shannon observed. "Building such a tall tower."

"Mm."

"Do you like playing with blocks?"

Ash looked at her. At her expectant, pleased expression. She genuinely wanted to know. Wanted to bond over toddler activities.

"They're fine," he said.

"Just fine?" Shannon smiled. "You looked like you were having fun."

"I wasn't having fun. I was just... stacking them."

"That's okay. You don't have to have fun every minute. But I'm glad you're engaging with your toys." She brushed a hand through his hair—Ash tried not to flinch. "You're adjusting so well, honey. Better than I even hoped."

The praise sat heavy in his stomach. He wasn't adjusting well. He was performing. There was a difference.

Except... was there? If the performance looked identical to adjustment, if his body responded the same way, if his hands built towers without conscious thought—what was the functional difference?

Ash drank his juice and didn't answer.

The morning continued. Shannon put on a children's show—something animated and bright and painfully simple. Ash watched because there was nothing else to do. Found himself following the basic plot despite himself. Felt his face almost-smile at a joke clearly meant for toddlers.

Caught himself. Stopped.

Lunch was grilled cheese again. Ash fed himself with moderate success, only needed Shannon's help twice when the sandwich fell apart.

"You're getting so good at this," Shannon praised. "Soon you won't need my help at all."

Naptime came after lunch. Ash didn't fight it anymore—what was the point? Shannon tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and left the door cracked.

Ash lay in the crib, listening to Shannon moving around downstairs. Doing laundry, from the sound of it. Washing dishes. All the mundane tasks of maintaining a household.

Maintaining him.

He closed his eyes, trying to summon the dissociation that had helped him through the worst moments. But it wouldn't come. He was too present, too aware of the crib bars and the stuffed dog tucked under his arm and the full diaper he'd have when he woke up.

Sleep took him anyway.

Tuesday brought something new: a video call.

"The facility wants to check in," Shannon explained after breakfast, setting up her laptop on the kitchen table. "Just a quick call to see how you're adjusting."

Ash's heart rate spiked. The facility. Maybe they'd see that this wasn't working. Maybe they'd—

What? Put him back in his old body? That wasn't possible. The procedure was irreversible.

Shannon positioned him on her lap facing the laptop camera. A moment later, the call connected.

Dr. Stevens appeared on screen, professional smile in place. "Good morning! How are we doing today?"

"Wonderful," Shannon said. "He's adjusting really well. Cooperating with routines, eating well, sleeping through the night."

"Excellent. And Noam, how are you feeling?"

Ash stared at the screen. At Dr. Stevens' calm, clinical expression. At the woman who had overseen his transformation.

"Fine," he said flatly.

"Just fine? Can you tell me a little more about how you're doing?"

"I'm trapped in a toddler body against my will. How do you think I'm doing?"

Shannon's hand tightened on his side. "Noam—"

"It's all right," Dr. Stevens said smoothly. "It's normal for subjects to still be processing during the first few weeks. Noam, I understand you're frustrated. But can you tell me about your days? Are you eating? Sleeping? Engaging with activities?"

Ash wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell her to fuck off, that he wouldn't perform for her assessment.

But Shannon's hand was still on his side, a subtle reminder. Cooperate. Survive.

"Yes," he said. "I'm eating and sleeping and playing with toys like a good little boy."

"I detect some sarcasm there," Dr. Stevens noted, typing something. "But the compliance is good. Shannon, has he required much disciplinary intervention?"

"The first few days were challenging," Shannon admitted. "We had several incidents. But the last few days have been much better. He's responding well to the structure."

"And the disciplinary measures you've implemented?"

"Timeouts and traditional spanking when necessary. We haven't needed to use the NCI phrase since the first day."

Dr. Stevens nodded, making more notes. "That's exactly what we like to see. The NCI should be reserved for genuine safety concerns. Sounds like you're handling behavioral issues appropriately." She looked back at the camera. "Noam, your mother tells me you're cooperating more. What changed?"

Ash stared at her. "I got tired of getting spanked."

"That's honest. And it shows good cause-and-effect reasoning. You're learning that cooperation leads to better outcomes. That's excellent progress."

Progress. Like he was a lab rat successfully navigating a maze.

"Any concerns or questions?" Dr. Stevens asked Shannon.

"Not really. He's doing better than I expected, honestly. Still some verbal resistance, but the behaviors are improving."

"Verbal resistance is fine as long as it's not disrespectful. He needs to be able to express his feelings." Dr. Stevens smiled at Ash through the screen. "Noam, it's okay to be upset or frustrated. But you still need to follow the rules and be respectful to your parents. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll check in again in two weeks. Shannon, call if you have any concerns before then, but it sounds like things are going well. Keep up the excellent work."

The call ended. Shannon closed the laptop and lifted Ash down from her lap.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Ash didn't answer. Just stood there, processing the fact that he'd been discussed like a case study. That his "progress" was being monitored and charted and reported as success.

That Dr. Stevens had basically endorsed the spankings.

"Come on," Shannon said gently. "Let's read some stories."

The day continued. Stories. Blocks. Lunch. Nap. More play. Dinner when Patrick got home. Bath. Bed.

Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow would be.

Wednesday, Shannon took him outside again. Not the kiddie pool this time—she set up a small sandbox in a shaded corner of the yard.

"You can dig and build," she explained, settling him in front of it with a few plastic shovels and molds. "Maybe make some sand castles?"

Ash picked up a shovel. The sand was damp, good for packing. He filled a bucket, turned it over, lifted it carefully.

A small tower. Perfect dome shape.

He made another. And another.

Before he realized it, he'd built a whole structure—walls and towers and a rough moat. His hands moved automatically, finding the best sand consistency, the right packing pressure.

It wasn't art. But it was creation. And his hands remembered creation even if they were the wrong hands.

"That's beautiful!" Shannon called from the patio. "You're such a good builder."

Ash looked down at what he'd made. It was good—as good as anything could be with limited tools and toddler hands.

He destroyed it. Smashed it flat with one sweep of his arm.

"Why did you do that?" Shannon asked, coming over. "It was so pretty."

"It was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid. You worked hard on it."

"It was sand." Ash stood up, brushing his hands on his shorts. "It doesn't matter."

Shannon studied him for a moment. "Is this about the art? Your old art?"

Ash's jaw tightened. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. But honey... you can still be creative. Just in different ways right now. And when you're older, you'll be able to do real art again."

When he was older. When he was eighteen again. When he was forty fucking years old.

"I want to go inside."

Shannon sighed but didn't argue. "All right. Let's get you cleaned up."

That night, lying in the crib, Ash thought about the sand castle. About how his hands had remembered the motions of creation even in their new form. About how for maybe ten minutes, he'd been absorbed in making something and hadn't hated every second.

It felt like a betrayal.

Of what, he wasn't sure. Of his old self? Of his resistance?

Or maybe just of the wall he was trying to maintain between Ash and Noam.

Thursday brought the first real test of his strategic cooperation.

Shannon had a dentist appointment. "Just a cleaning," she explained over breakfast. "Daddy's going to come home early and watch you for a few hours."

Patrick arrived around 10:30, still in his work clothes but jacket removed and tie loosened. "How's my boy?" he asked, scooping Ash up for a brief hug.

Ash tolerated it. Barely.

"We're just going to hang out," Patrick said as Shannon gathered her purse and keys. "Maybe play some games. Have some guy time."

Guy time. With his father while he was literally in a diaper.

Shannon kissed them both goodbye and left. The door closed. Patrick set Ash down and rolled up his sleeves.

"So. What should we do?"

"I don't care."

"Come on, we've got a few hours. Let's do something fun." Patrick surveyed the toys scattered in the living room. "How about we build something really big with the blocks? Bigger than you've made before?"

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

Patrick studied him. "Are you being defiant, or do you genuinely not want to play with blocks?"

Ash considered lying. But strategic cooperation meant picking battles, and this felt like one he could concede.

"I don't want to play with blocks."

"Okay. What do you want to do?"

"I want to not be here."

"Well, that's not an option." Patrick sat down on the couch. "So let's pick something that is an option. Want to color?"

"No."

"Read books?"

"No."

"Watch a show?"

"...Maybe."

Patrick grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through until he found a nature documentary. "How's this? Animals and stuff. More interesting than cartoons."

Ash looked at the screen. A lion pride on the savanna, golden in afternoon light. Real footage, real animals, narration that didn't talk down to children.

"Okay."

Patrick settled back on the couch and patted the cushion beside him. After a moment's hesitation, Ash climbed up and sat down. Not touching Patrick, but nearby.

They watched in silence for a while. The documentary was actually interesting—beautiful shots, compelling narrative about survival and family dynamics.

Family dynamics. Lions had better family dynamics than the Walshes right now.

"This okay?" Patrick asked after about twenty minutes.

"Yeah."

"Good." Patrick glanced at him. "You know, when you were little—before—you used to love animal shows. Couldn't get enough of them. You'd watch the same ones over and over."

Ash didn't remember that. Or maybe he did, distantly. A small child absorbed in nature footage, asking endless questions about how things worked.

"I'm not that kid anymore."

"No, you're not," Patrick agreed quietly. "But maybe there are some things that stay the same regardless. Like being curious about the world."

Ash didn't respond. Just watched as the documentary shifted to nighttime hunting, infrared cameras catching the pride on the move.

Around noon, Patrick paused the show for lunch. Chicken nuggets and apple slices. Simple food that Ash could mostly manage himself.

"You're getting really good at feeding yourself," Patrick observed. "Your mom said you barely needed help yesterday."

"It's not exactly hard."

"It is for a two-year-old body. You're adapting faster than most subjects do."

Subjects. There it was again. The clinical terminology that reduced Ash to a case study.

"Is that good?" Ash asked. "That I'm adapting?"

Patrick set down his own sandwich. "Yes. It means you're resilient. That you're able to learn and adjust even in difficult circumstances."

"Or it means I'm giving up."

"No." Patrick's voice was firm. "Adapting isn't giving up. It's surviving. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes." Patrick leaned forward. "Noam, I know this is hard. I know you hate it. But you're still here. You're still you inside that head. Cooperating with the reality you're in doesn't erase that."

Ash stared at his plate. "It feels like it does."

"I know. But it doesn't." Patrick reached over and squeezed his small shoulder. "You're still my son. Still the same person, just... in different circumstances."

The words should have been comforting. Maybe were meant to be. But all Ash heard was confirmation: you're still you, and you're stuck like this anyway.

After lunch, Patrick changed his diaper—Ash dissociated through it, staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing. Then they finished the documentary and started another one.

Shannon came home around 2:00. "How did it go?"

"Great," Patrick reported. "We watched nature shows and had lunch. He was cooperative the whole time."

"Wonderful!" Shannon beamed at Ash. "I'm so proud of you for being good for Daddy."

Ash said nothing. Just let her hug him and praise him and settle him on the couch for quiet time while she and Patrick talked in the kitchen.

He could hear them—they weren't trying to be quiet.

"He's doing better," Patrick said. "Still resistant verbally, but the behaviors are improving."

"Dr. Stevens said the same thing yesterday. She thinks he's adapting really well."

"He asked me if adapting means giving up."

A pause. "What did you tell him?"

"That adapting is surviving. That there's a difference."

"Do you think he believed you?"

"No. But maybe eventually he will."

Ash closed his eyes and tried not to listen. Tried not to think about what it meant that his parents were discussing his adaptation like it was good news.

That night, his mantra felt more desperate than usual.

"My name is Ash. I'm twenty-four years old. I'm an artist. I was trying to stay clean. I was trying."

But his voice was small and his hands were pudgy and the words felt like they were coming from someone else.

Friday ended the second week.

Fourteen days as Noam. The weekend stretched ahead, then another week, then another.

Five thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days to go.

Ash lay in the crib and tried to do the math. How many times would he eat breakfast? How many diaper changes? How many times would he stack blocks or read board books or play in sandboxes?

The numbers were incomprehensible.

But what scared him more was how routine this was already becoming. How his body knew the schedule. How his hands reached for toys automatically. How he'd watched that documentary and forgotten, just for a few minutes, to hate everything.

Strategic cooperation was supposed to be a shield. A way to survive without surrendering.

But what if cooperation was its own form of surrender? What if going through the motions eventually made the motions real?

"My name is Ash," he whispered again.

But he wasn't sure anymore if saying it made it true, or if it was just something he told himself to feel less lost.

Outside the nursery, he heard his parents getting ready for bed. The house settling into nighttime quiet. Everything normal and domestic and wrong.

Ash closed his eyes.

Week two was over.

Week three would begin tomorrow.

And he still had no idea how to survive this without losing himself completely.

But he'd keep trying.

Because what else could he do?