Kids Fly Free

Chapter 1
Kids Fly Free

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Chapter Description: Heterosexually-themed male AR, both physical and mental. Comedic tones. The sequel to No Child Left Behind.

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lola trechlyn

kids fly free

for scott

((( Act I )))

He hated to fly, and it showed.

It wasn’t the TSA searches. They had tapered off over the years, anyway. Airlines had become altruistic enough to use much of the space in their new triple-decker passenger jets to provide ticketholders with a little more legroom. Even the food had improved appreciably; meat was only a handful of years away from becoming identifiable.

No-- Scott’s problem was that he hated to be alone with his thoughts. He hated that they were his only company for the 18 hours it took to cross the Atlantic from Johannesburg. And he hated that there was so, so much more ground to cover.

Like a zombie, the 26-year-old jet-setter, perfectly handsome in his t-shirt and blue jeans but looking from the neck up as if he’d spent 10 seconds making out with a Dementor, shambled up to the counter that processed connecting flights. Scott threw down a stack of cards and managed a weak “...ey.”

“Mellow greetings, sir!” the agent replied. “And how are we doing today?”

“I’d get a vasectomy with safety scissors if it got me to LAX five minutes sooner. And you?”

“Okay, well, let’s just see whatcha got here and we’ll send you to your concourse. No need for TSA again. Name?”

“Scott Michael Danvers.”

“Date of birth?” asked the agent.

“June 26th, 2007.” It hadn’t been his first birth, but he’d long since tired of relating the story.

“Scan, please.”

Still weakened by the shallowest of sleeps, Scott rested his hand on the counter and the desk agent clicked a small device over it. A subcutaneous light blinked twice, and the agent returned to view her computer terminal. The usual details flashed across a holographic panel of blank air: Identity confirmation, home address, no convictions, legally-mandated Christian denomination. The clerk stamped Scott’s boarding pass and smiled up at him.

“You’re all set, son,” she said.

“One more thing,” said Scott, deciding off-the-cuff that he could use a little pampering. “You got anything in First Class?”

More tapping, more clicking. “Well, it does look like we have one available, sir. Level 3, Row 2, Seat A. Looks like a difference of $34,083. Do you wish to upgrade?”

“Do it,” came the reply, and the agent clicked her device over Scott’s hand again, wiring the funds from the young man’s bank directly to the airline.

Minutes later, Scott was in Concourse R, slouched halfway down a faux-leather chair like syrup dripping from a stack of pancakes. Kennedy-Franken Airport was packed with businessmen, vacationers, flight attendants-- it may as well have been its own borough.

Familiar words echoed over the airport PA systems. “Now boarding Flight 1880 to Havana International Airport.” “Stand right, walk left, watch your step. The people-mover is not a ride.” “Captain Oveur, white courtesy phone.” They blurred together as white noise to Scott Danvers. So did the verbal meanderings of the hundreds of travelers surrounding him. Drained of energy, bereft of happiness, and with all his leisure reading already in the belly of the next plane, all the man could do was sulk.

He did have a spark of an idea. It was the same idea he always got when he found himself in New York for whatever reason. With hours to kill before his connection, it’d be a simple matter of calling his mother and meeting her in a common area of the airport for lunch and some catching-up.

Scott loved his mother very, very much. Mrs. Danvers had been a high school English teacher for over 30 years, and her interactions with kids of every stripe made her appreciate her own child all the more. Scott’s mom cooed and coddled him and left him wanting for nothing. His intuition while growing up was so great, his ability to learn and retain so instantaneous and foolproof, Scott ultimately ended up at the best schools and with a career that sent him all over a magnificent world. Mrs. Danvers even had the motherly courtesy to spare Scott the embarrassment of being a student of her class, in favor of Mr. Kamen’s, down the hall.

No, he thought to himself, deciding against meeting her for lunch. I’d be even more depressed by having to part ways with her after a couple short hours than by not seeing her at all.

Dejected, almost fighting back tears of exhaustion and nauseating monotony, Scott resigned himself to the fact that the best years of his life had long since passed, and his overachievement had doomed him to an adulthood of worry and fuss. Successful worry and fuss, but worry and fuss nonetheless.

Not dead at twenty-six. Not on life support at twenty-six. Let’s just say... critical condition.

Concourse R was empty. Scott’s flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for two and a half hours. It was only when a gorgeous, shapely woman -- not a day over Scott’s age, and most likely a handful of years younger, with medium-length blonde hair and the most piercing of mesmerizing eyes -- sat down across from the young man that Scott felt a spark of attention illuminate the corners of his mind. Dressed professionally in a black business suit and carrying a Fendi briefcase, she appeared as commanding as she did wise.

So how kind could she be? Scott thought to himself. His mother would have called that “stinkin’ thinkin’.”

“Where ya off to?” the woman asked in a chipper, energetic voice, catching Scott entirely off-guard. Her delivery was directed and confident enough to encourage the young man to pull himself together, dragging himself back up into his seat and trying to look as presentable as possible.

“City of Angels,” Scott replied, conjuring up a smile. “I was away on business. South Africa.”

“Ooh, South Africa,” said the woman, raising an eyebrow and smiling back. “Look at you! Around the world in 24 hours!”

“Heh,” Scott chuckled with no small amount of cynicism. “If only.”

“I’m Sylvia Divine,” she said, holding out her hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Scott Danvers. Good to meet you, too. Where ya headed?”

“Pennsylvania,” replied Sylvia. “There’s a farm in south-central PA... just a place where I and others like me go to unwind every so often.”

Scott nodded.

“Speaking of which,” she continued, “you look as if you could use a little unwinding yourself.”

“You can say that again. But I don’t think I even have the energy to unwind.”

Sylvia set down her briefcase and brushed off her skirt. “Do you mind? I’m an outcall masseuse. I think I could work out some of those cricks in your neck, untie a few knots in those legs of yours.”

Scott’s cock twitched. He found the proposal miles beyond unusual but didn’t make a habit of looking gift horses in the mouth. The young man shrugged noncommittally, trying to obscure his piqued curiosity without exuding an air of elitism or, worse, disinterest. The areas of his brain which so reliably delineated things that made sense and things that didn’t had shut down somewhere over Cape Verde.

“It could only help,” Scott said with a half-smile. Nothing like the touch of a good woman to cure the blues.

((( Act II )))

The touch of a good woman, as it were, began at the ankles. Scott was relieved by the barrenness of the concourse as his new acquaintance placed her soft, unyielding palms upon the achiest bones in his legs, massaging them rhythmically and expertly. Untying every knot and working out every kink. One by one, stroke by stroke.

The oddity of the situation was not lost on Scott, but he didn’t feel compelled to put an end to it. Have you ever told a woman to stop touching your leg?

The massaging continued and, by the time Sylvia got to Scott’s denim-clad thighs, he could feel his semi-hard dick twitch reflexively within the confines of his white briefs. He wasn’t in the mood for anything sexual-- and, indeed, he hadn’t the energy for anything beyond leaving himself to Sylvia Divine’s therapeutic caress.

So, when she sat in the seat next to his and laid Scott down along the adjacent few, stretching his legs across her lap as if he were a small child, he thought nothing of it, and certainly didn’t oppose it.

The scents of lilac and vanilla struck Scott’s nose first. It was as if Sylvia exuded these soporific aromas of her own volition; they were of a profoundly adequate strength, and whenever the woman saw Scott squirm childishly in response to the joyous scents slipping into his nostrils, it was also as if she redoubled the delivery. It was less a scent than a mist, and the more it snuck into Scott’s nose and seeped into the pores of his exposed flesh, the faster it came. The young man had begun to respond quite evidently, his muscles twitching, his mouth twisting its corners into a babyish smile.

Then, Scott felt something else. Something foreign, indeed, but not something with which he was altogether unfamiliar.

The loving touch of Sylvia’s hands upon Scott’s aching legs, the mist of anesthetic aromas infiltrating his senses, the very sensation of being in the lap of somebody who sought little else than to ease the hardships of her charge-- they made Scott feel loved, and they made Scott feel vulnerable, and they made Scott feel... little.

Not again.

But it was so. Scott Danvers was shrinking. His shirt had started to drape inelegantly around his frame, and the belt securing his jeans to his waist had become little more than a formality. Scott looked up at Sylvia, pleadingly, asking with his eyes for an explanation, but received only a condescending smile in return. The kind lady continued stroking her palms along Scott’s frame and ejecting pleasant scents into the vicinity. He inhaled it all. It was addictive, like a good drug, and Sylvania’s touch had begun to have a most sedative effect on the young man’s musculature. Any desire Scott could have mustered in the line of fighting back was overcome by the sheer pleasure with which Sylvia’s touch wracked his aching, jet-lagged skeleton.

Scott felt his eyes grow heavy. The motherly caress of this unconditionally kind woman had reduced him to a needful child trapped in the body of an overworked twentysomething. Mustering up what little strength he had at his disposal, Scott threaded his thumb down the beltline of his blue jeans -- now several sizes too large for his 13-year-old body -- and gazed in weak resignation as he lifted the slack of his pants several inches above his waist and examined the tableau which greeted his sight.

The boy’s suspicions were confirmed; he was growing down, not up. His pubic hair went from curly to straight. Then black to blond. Then rough to downy. Then present to gone. Every stroke of Sylvia’s ivory palm sent Scott a handful of months further back, his cock becoming more of an innocent dick, then a boy’s penis -- dwindling between his legs and any and all semblance of what he’d accomplished in growing up vanishing into the ether as if it had never happened in the first place. The wrinkles of his scrotum smoothed out and his balls pulled up tightly against him. Scott felt nothing like a man-- and, for that matter, looked nothing like one.

Scott’s muscles were next to go, melting like ice cream in the summer sun. Wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt befitting a 26-year-old had led the little eight-year-old sprawled across Sylvia’s lap feeling as if he was swaddled in bedclothes. He wanted to scream, to shout, to beg... but the younger he got, the more compelled he felt to remain in Sylvia’s loving embrace. She cooed at the little boy, embracing him more closely and warmly to him as he lost inches and pounds by the second; when she was finished with his legs, the lady moved her palm upward, sliding its perfect warmth beneath the seven-year-old’s t-shirt and gently massaging Scott’s newly-hairless torso and chest. The boy did not resist. Every slight touch made him more deeply wish to be cuddled by the woman; every vanishing year made him a more dependent, reliant little boy.

No! he screamed in his head. He was a big boy! He didn’t need cuddling!

The six-year-old in Sylvia’s lap was an interloper in a land of confusion. As much as Scott tried to grasp reality, to cling to his connection with humanity, he could barely manage to keep his eyes open. Scott did want cuddles. And he wanted sleep. And he wanted toys. He wanted to be a man again. And he wanted stuffed animals-- big, fluffy ones who’d keep him company.

Scott’s tummy hurt. He needed the potty. The little boy, steeling himself with the last remnants of his strength, wrenched free from Sylvia and rolled off her lap, colliding to the floor with a thump, uninjured. He arose on uncertain feet, held his jeans up with one hand, and made a run for it.

((( Act III )))

But for where?

Scott first realized the full scope of his dilemma as soon as he got six feet away from the woman who had sucked 20 years clean out of him. He was a very, very little boy, in a very, very big building.

He turned around in defiance and shot darts into her with his eyes.

“You’re a mean lady,” he chirped, in a voice that definitely wasn’t his own. The fingers of Sylvia’s hand were already over her mouth, trying to stifle some good-natured giggling. Scott stared her down as he reached under his muu muu of a t-shirt to grasp his belt, cinching it so tightly around his waist that his jeans wouldn’t fall if he played his cards right, nor would the briefs underneath. Pulling up the cuffs of his pants and securing them was the next step. The sight of his completely hairless legs was a heart-thumping shock to the boy. “And I gotta go potty.”

Redness flushed through the six-year-old’s face. He tried again.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” squeaked Scott. Sylvia was laughing now. A soft cramp hit Scott’s tummy, causing him to grimace a bit. He turned around again, and stumbled off through the concourse.

The child looked ridiculous -- holding his belt together and his enormous, cuffed jeans up with one hand, trying to keep control of his billowy t-shirt with the other -- as he toddled around the terminal. The joviality of the sight was not lost on anybody around him; travelers glanced, wondering why parents would clothe their tiny son in the Seth Rogen collection; boarding agents did double-takes, then checked to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day; flight attendants attempted to pounce, understandably distressed by the idea of a six-year-old scrambling around unattended. He avoided them all, stopping every few seconds to take a deep breath and calm his stomach down-- he was on the verge of an accident, and none of this was helping.

Where are the restrooms? Scott thought to himself. Thirteen goddamn sandwich stores and no restrooms!

In fairness, Scott felt like a stranger in a strange land. Everything was so much bigger; every transition from Point A to Point B was so much longer. The adults that filed around him -- the very adults with whom he did business day in and day out -- were giants. And his pants were loosening.

It’s still happening,the boy thought, horrified. I’m getting younger.

Temporarily distracted, Scott dashed for an advertisement board just reflective enough for him to see what was happening to him. His hair became downy and straight. His features softened into the obvious transitional period between toddlerhood and childhood. He had to squeeze his hands around his clothes still further, in mere hope of keeping them on.

Scott lost his ability to make snarky thoughts or to rationalize things in his head. When he was about to sink from five years old to four, the best solution the boy was capable of considering was to cry, to bawl.

And I won’t!

“May I help you, little boy?”

Scott whirled around, startled. He clenched his sphincter muscles so tightly his teeth were grinding, until, finally, the wave passed. It was a flight attendant who had accosted him -- one from whom, by the four-year-old’s standing still for a handful of seconds, he hadn’t been able to escape.

“Yespleasewherearethebathrooms,” he spat out, as if advertising for Micro Machines.

“Aww,” replied the flight attendant, a tall, perfectly-shaped blonde woman in her early thirties. She reached out her hand and tousled the boy’s hair. “I think what we need to do is find your parents--”

“No!” Scott squealed. “You gotta listen to me! I’m a big boy!”

“Well, even young men as big as four have to be accompanied by an adult around here.”

“No, I mean it. I’m a big boy. I’m tw--” A sharp little spark went through Scott’s head. He shook it off. “I’m in my twenties! The big number, y’know? It’s a big one!”

The flight attendant had her palms on her knees, squat, to meet eyes with the obviously upset little boy, who was already slipping back to age three. She nodded condescendingly, pouting her bottom lip outward.

“I know it’s a big number, and I’m so proud of you for knowing it!”

Scott could feel his heart seethe. Keeping his pants up was becoming an arm-aching chore. Explaining the situation to this woman... he didn’t consider the odds very good.

He looked up at the flight attendant, his eyes pleading. “Dere was this bigger woman. She did this to me. I’m a big boy. And I gotta go poopies.”

“There you are!” came a voice from off to the side. Scott turned to see Sylvia Divine rushing towards them. His eyes widened in horror. “Don’t you ever run away from me like that again! Somebody could have stolen you!”

The woman swept Scott up into her arms and cuddled him to her breast. Someone did, thought he boy, just before the word “someone” disappeared from his vocabulary with a spark.

The concerned flight attendant stood up and smiled at Sylvia. “Well, I’m glad you found your boy,” she said. “Be careful-- there are people rushing all over this place! He could have gotten really hurt!”

Sylvia rocked the severely overclothed three-year-old in her arms, feigning an apologetic look of agreement at the employee. “I know. I’m so, so sorry. He’s just been so fussy all day!”

“You might want to look into finding clothes that fit him,” the flight attendant added with a smile.

Sylvia lost her own smile, and glanced at the attendant’s eyes. “You might want to look into minding your own business.”

The two parted ways, and Scott’s emotional and physical strength had come to their respective ends.

((( Act IV )))

Scott was two and a half years old, cradled in a stranger’s arms, and he had lost the battle. The tears came sporadically with every sniffle. The poop, not quite as sporadically.

The boy had lost his memory of how to operate his sphincter. It still worked, instinctually, but it had become uselessly weak. As Sylvia rocked him in the airport terminal, Scott could feel every lump of poop push out from between his cheeks and drop, one-by-one, into the underwear and jeans that dangled between his legs. Once in a while the little boy thought he had control of it-- but when he tried to do what he thought he had to do to stop it, another bit fell out of his butt and into his pants.

Scott began to cry. Not a quiet, dignified sob, but the infantile howl of someone quickly approaching 24 months old from the wrong direction. He’s been ruined by this woman, this stranger. And not only had he been ruined by her, he now belonged to her, and the first impression he’d always be doomed to have left was freely pooping his pants right in front of her. In her arms, from which no gust of odor could leave anything to the imagination.

And there was odor. And there were farts, and slickness, and every reason on Earth for Scott to be crying as hard as he was. Real baby wails that no passers-by paid any attention to. It happens. Babies cry.

-=-=-

The walk to the ladies’ restroom was no picnic. With every shift of her body, Sylvia similarly shifted the load Scott dumped in his pants. He wasn’t wailing any more, at least, but the warm mush brushing left and right against his toddler butt was nauseating to the former 26-year-old. Scott didn’t want to have to see it, and he didn’t want to deal with it; fortunately, though, his regression seemed to have slowed, no doubt due in part because the malodorous mist emanating from his pants was in direct opposition to the alluring, pleasant scents that had gotten him to that point in the first place.

Scott didn’t like the feeling of his new body. Even though he was swaddled in his old clothes, he could sense all the things that had gone wrong with it. Touching his face, he was greeted with round, ivory-soft pudginess-- a glance at his hand revealed the stubby, ill-defined appendage of a toddler. He could feel, as they brushed against his t-shirt, that his defined pectoral muscles had sunken into a mush of jiggly baby fat. This baby fat sat atop more baby fat, which sat atop... Scott had no idea. Beneath all those clothes, he still believed he had a penis -- there certainly was a little pile of nerve endings down there brushing against the front of his sagging underpants and sending signals that it existed -- but there was no tactile response, no twitching as had happened when first this woman of questionable honorability had brought Scott into her lap.

A... big number of years, the boy thought to himself with a sniffle as Sylvia carried him into the ladies’ room. All that work. All that learning. And here we are. Scott’s mind was rapidly diminishing; he didn’t understand the purpose of the gigantic airport in which his horror was transpiring, and he didn’t know what a boy his age was doing buried in the clothes of someone who might be capable of taking care of him, not being him. The last words he recognized were Koala Bear Kare before he lost the ability to read entirely.

((( Act V )))

Scott Michael Danvers was 20 months old when Sylvia Divine placed his squirming form, freshly liberated from its clothes, upon the baby changing station. His lack of musculature was beginning to hit him hard. He still had a reasonable amount of autonomy over all the locomotion he had accrued in his life, but after all that had happened in such a short period of time, it was just too exhausting to do anything more advanced than sit and explore his body. From what very little he knew as his mind bled away (at a much slower pace than that of his physical metamorphosis, a flourish of which Scott was not a fan), he’d be squirming and flailing helplessly within the hour, no longer with any conscious dominion over what he did, what he sucked, or when he cried.

He could tell that his cute, naked, hairless body had one devastating problem, at least: most of his bottom half was covered in brown stink. And that’s why he was here. In front of not only Sylvia, but the other ladies who had been using the facilities concomitantly. One by one, they came over as the woman amassed the supplies she’d need to turn Scotty into a hopping, crinkly little bundle of joy.

Scotty raised his head and surveyed what he was dealing with. The 26-year-old imprisoned in the body of an 18-month old was indeed turning heads. He surveyed himself, top-down. The inevitable paunches of baby-fat-- he knew about those. Between his legs, though, something bobbed about which to be far more terrified... an inch of limp penis, smeared with the destruction he’d caused in his pants, not doing anything but looking like a joke.

The boy wanted to cry, and he very nearly did... but with an audience? Forget it. It’ll probably still get it up, right? he asked himself, trying to grasp a fleeting piece of knowledge he managed to gather when he still knew how to read. I might even have an orgasm or two through the years. But he knew it would be well over a decade before he could fire it off again. And that was the last thought he had about sex before the concept of it flew out of his head, possibly forever.

“Well, who do we have here?” cooed one of the strange women.

“This is Scotty!” Sylvia replied, tickling beneath the infant’s chin. Scotty giggled. His heart was on fire.

“And how old is heeee?” asked another of the women.”

“He’s 16 months old,” said Sylvia, looking down and feigning pride. Scotty was beginning to screw up his face.

“Oooh... only eight more months ‘til the Terrible Twos,” contributed a third woman, grinning from ear to ear.

Can’t any of you see... um... what’s... what this is? Scotty was screaming in what was left of his mind. I’ll get to be two if I’m LUCKY!!

The international traveler was livid, almost crimson red with frustration, as Sylvia cleaned his poopy butt in front of all these women, some of whom were a year or two younger than his actual self. Girls he might have asked out if their first interaction with him hadn’t been a butt smeared with crap.

The feeling of wipes on his most sensitive areas was cold, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Scotty liked the filthiness going away. He liked the smell dissipating. He just could have done without the four women fawning over him as he was cleaned like a baby.

Then, the diapers came out. Scotty wasn’t an idiot. He knew they’d been on their way.

Scotty closed his eyes -- partially to get rid of the cooing, admiring ladies -- and began to accept inevitability. He remembered the feel of all that material and plastic beneath his butt. He remembered the delicate wisping wind illusion as powder was puffed onto his privates in gentle shakes. He remembered the feeling of warm hands massaging it in, over his crotch, between his thighs, along his genitals. And, most of all, he remembered feeling his -- his!? -- baby pants pulled up between his thighs, held to his tummy, and secured. With, of course, the requisite tucking in of the legbands, to protect leaks. It wasn’t so bad.

1989. 2007. 2033. As many times as he had to do this, at least he could live with that.

What Scotty couldn’t deal with was opening his eyes again. He was one year old.

Everywhere he looked, it was horror. Looking down, a roll of baby fat spilled over a double-thick diaper, sandwiched between two pudgy legs. He couldn’t even close them together-- Scotty knew he’d be crawling for some time. Looking up, four women, “aww”ing and cooing and wanting to hold the little tyke. The names of colors started to slip away from the little man’s brain... all except for yellow, which, when Scotty looked down at his diaper, he saw was making a guest appearance.

The fact that the Yellowstone hot springs felt as if they had suddenly relocated to Scotty Danvers’s baby pants were the only indication the young man had. The yellow spot kept spreading, occupying a concentric diameter of the little boy’s new diaper. Scotty wasn’t terribly upset that he was pissing himself... he was upset that--

“OHMYGOD,” quivered one woman. “That is so cute.”

“That’s my boy,” smiled Sylvia.

Scott Michael Danvers sniffed a bit. He wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t mind the sensation of warm wetness drooling over his genitals and settling between his thighs. He didn’t mind how it puffed out his diapers, or advertised quite obviously that he’d be wearing them for some time.

Another woman fell back against the sink of the ladies’ room comically. “Boy, if I had a baby that adorable, I’d never let him go.”

Scotty didn’t like the people looking at him. Talking about him. Dammit, don’t they know... don’t they... dun... gwown-up... big boy...?

Scotty pissed out the last of his intelligence. Then he began to cry.

In between uncontrollable fusses, the boy belted out, “I -- wan’ -- my -- MOMMY!!” And then he began to bawl, fully swinging his jaws open, singing out any infantile wail he can muster. Scotty spread his legs, exposing the evidence of his descent into becoming a one-year-old, and pumped his fists into the air, allowing his elbows to collide repeatedly with what was left of his kneebones, as the women spoke of his adorable performance.

Scotty didn’t feel adorable. He felt like a successful man, who had lived a good life, and was about to have to go through it yet again.

He was right about being able to move very little, as well. When he finally sunk to, and stopped, at six months, he rolled onto his side, his thumb in his mouth, kicking weakly around the squishiness of the fabric girding him.

For a while, he would be depending on the kindness of strangers, just as he had in Concourse R.

((( Epilogue )))

Schoolteacher Mrs. Danvers was only marginally surprised to see the bundle of joy Sylvia handed to her on the porch of her New York rowhouse.

“Oh my God,” the old lady said, touching the six-month-old, swaddled infant on the nose. “It really is him. Again, I mean. My one and only Baby ‘Cotty.”

The baby chuckled softly, but his mouth was too involved with his thumb for it to be all that audible.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Danvers said, kissing Sylvia’s cheek. “This, I believe, is yours.” One thousand dollars in cash, passed in good health.

Sylvia nodded in respect at her former math teacher. “I always had to go to Mr. Kamen’s class to see him, but the detour was worth it.”

Scotty squirmed in his mother’s arms. He needed to pee, so he just did it. It felt good.

Mrs. Danvers smiled. “I’ve always thought of you as a kind, generous girl. If there was anyone I’d trust to--”

“Please,” Sylvia said, raising her hand slowly. “The pleasure was all mine.”

When the door fell shut, Sylvia Divine took her leave of the porch and drove away, leaving Mrs. Danvers and her once-and-only son on the inside, the latter being rocked as he soaked his diapers.

The woman cooed to her baby. “Here we go again, scout.”

thanks for reading

-lt

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