Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 7
Intake

The transport van had no windows in the back. Just metal walls, a bench seat with restraint points, and the persistent smell of industrial cleaner that didn't quite cover the scent of fear and desperation.

Ash sat handcuffed, wrists locked to a chain around his waist, ankles shackled together. The bailiff who'd secured him had been efficient and impersonal. No rough handling, but no gentleness either. Just procedure.

"Please," Ash had said as they clicked the handcuffs closed. "Please, you don't understand. This isn't right. They can't do this to me."

The bailiff hadn't responded. Just finished securing the restraints and guided him to the van.

Now Ash sat in the darkness, feeling every bump in the road, trying not to panic. Trying to think. There had to be a way out. There had to be someone he could call, something he could do, some legal loophole—

But there wasn't. The judge had granted conservatorship. His parents had made the choice. The paperwork was already being processed.

He was going to be turned into a toddler.

The thought kept circling his brain, impossible to accept. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't happen in real life. This was dystopian fiction, not reality.

But the handcuffs were real. The van was real. The facility they were driving to was real.

Ash pulled against the restraints reflexively. The chain rattled but didn't give. Of course it didn't.

The van turned, slowed, stopped. Voices outside. The sound of a gate opening. Then they were moving again, just for a moment, before stopping completely.

The back door opened. Harsh fluorescent light flooded in.

"Come on," the transport officer said. Not unkindly, but not sympathetically either. "Let's go."

Ash didn't move. Couldn't move. If he got out of this van, if he walked into that building, it was over. It was really over.

"Mr. Walsh. I need you to exit the vehicle."

"No." Ash's voice came out small. "I can't. Please. There's been a mistake. My parents—they didn't mean it. They were scared. If I could just talk to them—"

"Your parents signed the intake authorization an hour ago. Mr. Walsh, I can help you out, or I can call for additional staff. Your choice."

Ash looked at the open door. At the concrete loading area beyond it. At the building rising up, institutional and final.

"I didn't use," he said desperately. "That night. I didn't use. Jordan Reeves shot me up while I was unconscious. This isn't fair. This isn't—"

"That's not my determination to make. Out of the van, please."

Ash's legs wouldn't cooperate. The transport officer sighed, reached in, helped guide him out. The ankle shackles made it awkward. Ash stumbled, caught himself.

"This way."

They walked—shuffled, really, with the ankle restraints—toward a door marked INTAKE. Security cameras tracked their movement. Everything was concrete and steel and utterly impersonal.

The door opened into a processing area that looked more like a prison than a medical facility. Which, Ash supposed, made sense. This was the criminal justice side of the program. People who'd been sentenced here, not people who'd volunteered.

A woman in scrubs sat behind a plexiglass window. She looked up as they entered, checked something on her computer.

"Walsh, Ash Wilde?"

"Yes," the transport officer answered for him.

"Bay Three."

They moved through another door, down a hallway. Ash saw other doors, some open. Caught glimpses of examination tables, medical equipment, people in scrubs moving with clinical efficiency.

Bay Three was a large room divided into stations. Medical equipment. A changing area. What looked like a photography setup. And restraints. So many restraints. Built into the examination table, hanging from tracks in the ceiling, attached to the walls.

Three staff members waited. Two women and one man, all in scrubs, all wearing badges with their photos and names. They looked at Ash the way mechanics might look at a car that needed extensive work—assessing, professional, detached.

"Ash Walsh?" the older woman asked, checking her tablet.

"Yes," Ash whispered.

"I'm Coordinator Stevens. This is Nurse Palmer and Tech Johnson. We're going to process your intake today. The procedure will take approximately 4-6 hours. Do you have any questions before we begin?"

"You can't do this." Ash's voice shook. "I don't consent. I don't—I didn't choose this. My parents—they forced—"

"Your parents hold legal conservatorship as of—" Stevens checked her tablet, "2:47 PM today. They've provided full consent for all procedures. Your cooperation will make this easier, but it's not required. We can proceed with or without it." She gestured to the examination table. "Please remove your clothing and put on the gown."

"What? No. No, I'm not—"

"Mr. Walsh." Stevens' voice didn't change. Still professional, still calm. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is you cooperate. The hard way involves additional restraints and sedation. Either way, we're doing the intake. You decide how difficult it is."

Ash looked at the three of them. At the transport officer still standing by the door. At the restraints built into every surface.

He was handcuffed. Shackled. In a locked facility. With no phone, no lawyer, no way to contact anyone.

"I want to call my lawyer," he said.

"Your lawyer was present at sentencing. The conservatorship is legal and binding. There's no appeal process during intake."

"Then I want to talk to my parents."

"They'll be contacted once processing is complete. Right now, we need to start the procedure. Clothing off, gown on. Last chance to do it yourself."

Ash stood frozen. Every instinct screamed to fight, to run, to do anything except comply.

But there was nowhere to run. Nothing to fight with. And if he resisted, they'd just sedate him and do it anyway.

"Can you—" His voice cracked. "Can you take off the handcuffs?"

Stevens nodded to Johnson. The tech approached with a key, unlocked the handcuffs and ankle shackles. Ash's wrists ached where the metal had dug in.

"Clothing off," Stevens repeated.

Ash's hands shook as he started unbuttoning his shirt. The shirt his mother had picked out. The tie that had felt like it was strangling him. Every piece of clothing felt like armor he was being forced to remove.

The staff watched impassively. Not leering, not interested—just waiting. Doing their jobs.

Ash stripped down to his underwear, then hesitated.

"Everything," Stevens said.

Ash closed his eyes. Removed his underwear. Stood naked and shaking in a room full of strangers who looked at him like he was a problem to be solved.

"Put this on." Palmer handed him a hospital gown. The thin, papery kind that tied in the back and covered nothing.

Ash put it on with shaking hands.

"On the table."

The examination table was cold. Ash lay down, the paper crinkling beneath him. Before he could process what was happening, Palmer and Johnson were securing restraints—wide straps across his chest, waist, thighs, ankles. More straps for his wrists.

"Wait—why do you need—"

"Standard procedure," Stevens said, already pulling up something on her tablet. "Some participants become combative during medical examination. The restraints are precautionary."

"I'm not going to—"

But he was already secured. Couldn't move more than an inch in any direction. Completely immobilized on the table.

Panic rose in Ash's throat. "Please. Please, I can't—I don't like being restrained. Please—"

No one responded. Stevens was reading something on her tablet. Palmer was setting up an IV stand. Johnson was organizing instruments on a tray.

"First, we'll do the medical examination," Stevens said, as if Ash had asked. "Full physical, blood work, imaging. Then psychological evaluation. Then we'll begin the pre-procedure protocol. The actual regression won't happen until tomorrow morning, but we need to complete all preparatory steps today."

"I don't want this." Ash's voice came out small, pathetic. "Please. I don't want any of this."

Stevens finally looked at him directly. Her expression wasn't cruel, but it wasn't kind either. Just matter-of-fact.

"Mr. Walsh, I've processed over three hundred participants through this program. Some came voluntarily. Some, like you, were court-mandated. None of them wanted to be on that table in that moment. But I can tell you that the vast majority—ninety-two percent—complete the program successfully and report, years later, that it saved their lives." She paused. "Right now, you're scared. That's normal. But this isn't a punishment. It's an intervention. And your parents chose it because they love you and want you to survive."

"They chose it because a judge let them override my rights—"

"They chose it because you chose twenty years in prison over a treatment program that would keep you alive. That's not a rational choice, Mr. Walsh. That's addiction and self-destruction making the choice for you. Your parents stepped in to override that. Whether you can see it now or not, they did you a favor."

Stevens turned back to her tablet. "Palmer, start the IV. Johnson, prep for blood draw. Let's get baseline vitals."

The next several hours blurred together into a nightmare of clinical efficiency.

Blood drawn. Vitals taken. Physical examination that was thorough and impersonal and made Ash want to crawl out of his skin. Questions about his medical history, his drug use, his sexual history, his mental health. All of it recorded on tablets and computers and forms.

An imaging scan—full body, some kind of advanced technology Ash didn't understand. They wheeled the table he was still strapped to into another room, positioned him under a massive machine, told him to hold still.

"This maps your current physical state," Stevens explained. "Height, weight, bone density, organ function, neural pathways. It gives us a baseline for the regression procedure and helps us determine the optimal endpoint age."

"Endpoint age?" Ash's voice was hoarse from crying earlier.

"The physical age you'll be regressed to. Based on your case parameters and the psychological evaluation, we're looking at approximately 24 months. Young enough for complete neurological reset, old enough to maintain some physical coordination."

Twenty-four months. Two years old.

Ash closed his eyes. Tried to dissociate. Tried to be anywhere else.

It didn't work.

After the imaging came the psychological evaluation. A different staff member this time—Dr. Reeves, a psychiatrist with a gentle voice and probing questions.

"Tell me about your relationship with your parents."

"Tell me about the night of your most recent overdose."

"Do you believe you have a substance abuse problem?"

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your will to live?"

Ash answered mechanically. What did it matter? They were doing this regardless.

"I'm noting significant resistance and lack of insight regarding addiction," Dr. Reeves said, typing on her laptop. "Persistent external blame attribution. Poor reality testing regarding consequences. Recommendation is for standard compliance protocols with elevated monitoring during adjustment phase."

"What does that mean?" Ash asked.

"It means we'll be keeping a close eye on you," Dr. Reeves said. "Making sure you adapt appropriately to the program."

After the evaluation came more preparation. They shaved him—everywhere. Arms, legs, chest, face. "Hair doesn't regress proportionally," Palmer explained. "It's easier to start from zero."

They took photographs. Front, back, sides. Face close-ups. "For the file," Stevens said. "Documentation purposes."

They gave him injections. "Pre-procedure medications," Johnson explained. "They'll help your body prepare for tomorrow's process."

They finally unstrapped him from the table around 7 PM. Ash's entire body ached from being immobilized for hours. His head swam from whatever drugs they'd given him.

"Time to move to holding," Stevens said. "You'll stay overnight in the pre-procedure unit. Someone will bring you dinner. The regression is scheduled for 6 AM tomorrow."

Holding turned out to be a small room with a hospital bed, a toilet, a sink. No windows. No door handle on the inside. A camera in the corner.

"Someone's monitoring 24/7," Stevens said. "If you need anything, just speak out loud. Don't try to hurt yourself. We'll intervene."

"What if I need to use the bathroom?"

"There's a toilet."

"What if I need—" Ash's voice broke. "What if I need to talk to someone? To my parents? To anyone?"

Stevens' expression softened, just slightly. "Your parents will be here tomorrow. After the procedure. They'll be the first people you see when you wake up."

"I don't want to see them. They did this to me."

"They saved your life." Stevens moved toward the door. "Try to get some rest, Mr. Walsh. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

The door closed with a decisive click. A lock engaged.

Ash was alone.

He stood in the middle of the small room, wearing only the hospital gown, hairless and shaking and more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

Tomorrow morning, they were going to transform him. Change his body. Strip away his adulthood. Turn him into a toddler.

And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to stop it.

Ash sank onto the bed. Pulled his knees to his chest. And cried.

He cried for his lost choices. For his stolen autonomy. For the life he'd built and destroyed and would never get back.

He cried because his parents had chosen this. Had signed the papers. Had said "regression program" in a courtroom while he begged them not to.

He cried because maybe they were right. Maybe he had been choosing death. Maybe this was the only way to survive.

He cried because that didn't make it okay. Didn't make it less of a violation. Didn't make it hurt less.

Somewhere beyond the locked door, the facility continued its efficient operations. Other rooms, other participants. Some sleeping. Some screaming. Some resigned to their fates.

Tomorrow, Ash would join them.

Tomorrow, Ash Wilde Walsh would cease to exist.

And Noam Francis Walsh—whoever that would be—would take his place.

Ash cried until exhaustion finally claimed him.

Cried until he fell asleep on the narrow hospital bed.

His last night as an adult.

His last night as himself.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

And there was nothing he could do but wait for morning.

Meanwhile: The Walsh Home, 8:47 PM

Shannon sat at the kitchen table, the conservatorship papers spread in front of her. Patrick had gone through them methodically, explaining each section, making sure she understood what they'd signed.

What they'd done.

She couldn't stop crying. Had been crying on and off since they left the courthouse. Since they'd heard their son screaming as he was dragged away.

"I can't do this," she whispered. "Patrick, I can't. We have to call them. We have to tell them we made a mistake."

Patrick looked up from his laptop, where he'd been reading through the program guidelines. His face was drawn, exhausted, but his voice was steady.

"No."

"Patrick—"

"No, Shannon. We made the choice. We did what we had to do. And now we see it through."

"He was begging us—"

"He was choosing death." Patrick closed the laptop. Looked at his wife with an expression that was equal parts grief and determination. "He was choosing twenty years in a prison that would destroy him. We couldn't let him do that."

"But what if we're wrong? What if this breaks him worse than prison would have?"

"Then we deal with that. But at least he'll be alive to be broken." Patrick stood, moved to stand behind Shannon's chair, hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me. We have spent four years accommodating his addiction. Walking on eggshells. Making excuses. Giving him chance after chance while he destroyed himself and dragged us down with him. We've let guilt and fear control every decision. We've let him manipulate us into fighting each other, into doubting ourselves, into enabling his self-destruction because we were too afraid of being 'bad parents' to actually parent."

"That's not—"

"It is. You know it is. Every time he said 'you don't trust me,' we felt guilty. Every time he said 'you're too controlling,' we second-guessed ourselves. Every time he promised he'd do better, we believed him because we wanted to believe him. And where did that get us? Three overdoses. Stolen jewelry. Court dates. And finally, watching our son choose twenty years in prison over treatment."

Shannon put her head in her hands. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be hard enough."

"We learn." Patrick's hands tightened on her shoulders. "We learn together. And we don't apologize for saving his life. Not to him, not to ourselves, not to anyone."

"He's going to hate us."

"Probably. For a while. Maybe for years." Patrick moved around to sit across from her. "But Shannon, I've spent the last twelve hours reading everything I could find about this program. Research studies. Success rates. Testimonials. And you know what I've learned? The families that succeed are the ones that commit. Fully commit. No wavering. No guilt-driven permissiveness. No letting the participant manipulate them with tears and accusations. The families that fail are the ones that can't hold boundaries. That give in. That let their adult child's anger control them."

"He's not just going to be angry. He's going to be traumatized. Violated. We're taking away his entire adult life—"

"We're giving him a chance at a future. That's what we're doing. And yes, it's extreme. Yes, it's going to be hard. Yes, he's going to fight us and hate us and try to make us feel like monsters. But we cannot—cannot—let that break our resolve."

Shannon looked at the papers in front of her. At their signatures on the consent forms. At the intake schedule for tomorrow.

"The procedure is at 6 AM," she said quietly. "They said we can be there when he wakes up. Around 9 or 10."

"And we will be. Together. Presenting a united front." Patrick leaned forward. "Shannon, I need to know you're with me on this. I need to know that when he's crying and begging and telling us we're horrible parents, you won't crumble. That you won't start apologizing and undoing everything we're trying to do."

"I don't know if I can be that strong."

"You have to be. We both do. Because if we're not—if we start doubting, if we start feeling too guilty, if we let him control us with his pain—this won't work. We'll fail him again. Just in a different way."

Shannon was quiet for a long time. Then: "No more apologizing."

"No more apologizing," Patrick agreed.

"No more letting him play us against each other."

"Never again."

"No more guilt-driven decisions."

"We made our choice. We stand by it."

Shannon took a shaky breath. "I called Claire. And Cathy. Told them what happened."

"And?"

"They're..." Shannon paused. "They're horrified. But not at us. At the whole situation. Claire kept saying 'twenty years, Mom. Twenty years in prison.' Like she couldn't believe those were actually the options. And Cathy—" Shannon's voice wavered. "Cathy was crying. She said it's awful, all of it is awful, but at least this way we can see him. At least he'll be alive and in our lives instead of dying in prison or from another overdose."

"So they understand."

"They understand we were trapped. That there was no good choice. Just..." Shannon gestured helplessly. "Just the least terrible option. Claire said the program sounds like a nightmare, but a twenty-year sentence for a twenty-four-year-old addict sounds like a death sentence. And Cathy pointed out that the drugs were going to kill him eventually anyway. That we've all been watching him die in slow motion for four years."

Patrick nodded slowly. "They're not wrong."

"No. They're not. None of this is wrong, exactly. It's just..." Shannon's voice broke. "It's just so fucking awful. All of it."

Patrick reached across the table, took her hand. "At least this way we get to keep him. However that looks."

"Yeah," Shannon whispered. "At least we get to keep him."

"I also called Eden."

"How did that go?"

"She's devastated. She keeps saying we didn't believe Ash about Jordan. That we're punishing him for something that wasn't his fault."

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth. That whether Jordan drugged him or not doesn't change the four-year pattern. That he was choosing death and we couldn't allow it. That we love him enough to do the hard thing even when he hates us for it."

"Did she understand?"

"No. She's eighteen. She still thinks love means giving people what they want. She'll understand better when she's older. When she's had to make impossible choices." Shannon wiped her eyes. "She asked if she could come home. To be here when he wakes up."

"What did you say?"

"I said no. That we need to establish our relationship with Noam first. That she can visit in a few weeks, once things have stabilized."

Patrick nodded. "That was the right call. The program materials say the first month is critical. Family members who show doubt or try to 'rescue' the participant undermine the whole process."

Shannon looked at him. "Noam. You called him Noam."

"That's who he'll be. Starting tomorrow. We need to start thinking of him that way. Ash is..." Patrick's voice caught, just slightly. "Ash made choices that led to this. Noam is who we get to raise. Who we get to save."

"I don't know if I can think of him as someone else."

"You have to. We both do. The program is clear about this—we're not just managing an adult in a child's body. We're reparenting. Giving him a genuine second chance at development, but with the benefit of our knowledge about what went wrong the first time."

"What if we get it wrong again?"

"We won't." Patrick's voice was firm. "Because this time, we're not going to be afraid of being too strict. We're not going to worry about whether he likes us. We're going to set boundaries and enforce them. We're going to be parents, not friends. And when he fights us—and he will fight us—we're going to remember that his comfort is not the goal. His survival is."

Shannon nodded slowly. "United front."

"United front," Patrick confirmed. "No wavering. No guilt. No letting him manipulate us. We made this choice to save his life, and we're going to see it through."

"Even when it hurts."

"Especially when it hurts. Because the hurt means it's working. Means we're holding boundaries he's not used to. Means we're finally being the parents he needed all along."

They sat in silence for a moment. The house felt different somehow. Empty of who their son had been. Waiting for who he would become.

"Tomorrow morning," Shannon said quietly. "Tomorrow morning, everything changes."

"Tomorrow morning, we get a second chance. And this time—" Patrick's voice was hard with determination, "—we don't fuck it up."

Shannon looked at her husband and saw the same resolve she was trying to build in herself. The same commitment. The same willingness to be hated if it meant saving their child.

"No more wavering," she said.

"No more guilt."

"No more apologies."

"We did the right thing."

"We did the right thing," Shannon repeated, trying to believe it.

Trying to silence the voice in her head that sounded like Ash screaming.

Trying to prepare for tomorrow, when they'd meet Noam for the first time.

When their adult son would be gone, replaced by a toddler who would hate them.

A toddler they would raise without apology, without guilt, without the permissiveness that had enabled his destruction.

They had made their choice.

Now they would live with it.

Together.

Resolved.

Committed.

No matter how much it hurt.

No matter how much he screamed.

No matter what.