Darren “Whit” Whitlock punched in his code and walked into the mailroom. As usual he was greeted by the smell of cheap coffee. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the breakroom where took his stained St. Louis Art Museum mug from the shelf and filled it from the ancient stainless steel coffee pot.

Fred walked in, chipper as always, his cup of Casey’s Coffee steaming. “Well good morning sunshine,” the old man said as he sat down and opened up a paper. Whit smiled, Fred’s uniform was at least two generations older then the current model and stained, but who cares. Fred was the oldest employee in the office, a 69 year old City Carrier. Everyone joked he carried at least two uncashed paychecks in his wallet, saving them up so he only had to go to the bank every couple months. No one could understand why he didn’t retire.

“Looks like a big day, alot packages,” Whit said as he glanced out of the back pallet of cardboard boxes the clerk was sorting.

“Yeah, pain the ass, you know there was a time when we actually delivered mail, but now I spend so much time dragging boxes around. It’s like these people can’t go buy their own shit anymore, know what I mean.”

“I hear you,” Whit said and went out to his case. As a rural carrier the rules were a bit lax, he could start early and the dispatcher wouldn’t say anything. City carriers had to follow the rules and start at 7:30 on the dot.

Whit pulled out his phone and checked his emails, he cursed under his breath. His package would arrive today and for some crazy reason it was being delivered by UPS. He cursed under his breath. ‘Maybe she won’t open it,’ he thought.

Whit put his phone down when Carrie waltzed into the office, the young red head was wearing a long knit sweater, and capri tights. She smiled at Whit and lifted her Starbucks cup to her mouth. He couldn’t help but admire the way the sweater enhanced her curves. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, “What you looking at there Whit?” Fred asked.

“Oh, I’m…”

“I know what you’re looking at son,” Fred laughed hysterically and slapped the younger man on the back.

Fred shuffled off, still chuckling.

Whit smiled, shook his head, and turned back to his coffee. Carrie was already gone, the echo of her laugh trailing down the hallway. He checked the clock—7:15. Time to get moving.

At his case the day’s mail waited in tight rubber-banded bundles. He slipped his headphones in, one ear only, and hit play. Pink Rabbits by the National. A sad song for a Sad Day. You didn’t see me when I was falling apart, I was a white girl in a crowd of white girls in the park. Matt Beringer’s melancholic baritone sang while Whit started casing letters: hands on autopilot, brain floating. Bills, flyers, the usual. Then he hit the first yellow “PARCEL” slip and groaned. A big one. Oversized. Address: Grace Miller, 1049 County Road 8.

He recognized the route number instantly, the old trailer way after the blacktop turned to gravel. The name had been popping up there a lot recently, another online shopper. Everybody was an online shopper now. “Hey, you've been working on your masterpiece?” Carrie asked.
Whit looked up in confusion and Carrie pointed at his arms. Blue paint stained his forearm. “Yeah I guess I didn’t see it,” Whit sheepishly said.
“I’m still waiting on my painting,” Carrie says.

“Yeah me too Whit, you’re said you’re going to paint me something pretty,” Fed yells out from across the room eliciting laughter from the other carriers.

“One day,” Whit says. He slid the slip aside, finished sorting, and began loading the LLV. The morning light came through the bay door like a thin sheet of gold, turning the dust into glitter. For a second he thought of the studio he’d had in college, the way light could make even a cracked wall look holy. Then Fred yelled something about the Cardinals’ bullpen and the spell broke.

A tall box stood out in the row of parcels, the box was from Amazon and plainly said it was a “professional artists easel” Whit checked the tag, Grace Miller. Well Grace you’ve got good taste in art supplies at least. Whit thought as he stacked the boxes.
Whit made a quick pit stop at his car and grabbed his camera. By the time Whit rolled out of the parking lot, Mud Creek was yawning awake: kids at bus stops, tractors already crawling down county roads, the diner’s neon sign flickering OPEN. He sipped the rest of his coffee and thought about the package again.

Grace Miller, 1049 County Road 8.

Four hours later, Whit pulled into the gravel drive.

It was hard to imagine anyone living in the beat-up trailer tucked behind the pines. The metal siding, once beige, had gone dark green with moss, and the porch sagged like an old man’s jaw. An ancient Ford pickup sat half in the weeds, its tailgate tied shut with a bungee cord.
He cut the engine and just sat there for a second, realizing he felt… tense. Out here, so far past his regular route, it wasn’t the distance that unsettled him, it was the quiet. You never knew what kind of people lived this far off the map.

Then the truck door creaked open, and a long, fake-fur-lined boot stepped onto the gravel.

The boot belonged to a tall, long-legged girl in black tights and a short dress, a flash of silver jewelry at her throat. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of one of his old art-school cigarette breaks in front of Fanner Hall. She certainly didn’t look like the woman he’d imagined living in this shit hole.

Whit felt the weight of his own years tug at him. He tugged his jeans higher over his soft belly and cleared his throat.
“Grace Miller?”

There was a pause, long enough to make him think he’d made a mistake, then a cautious, “Yes.”

The voice caught him off guard. It wasn’t a man’s, not exactly, but not quite a woman’s either. It landed somewhere in between, fragile but steady. Something in the back of his brain lit up, a mix of curiosity and guilt.

“I’ve got a package for you,” he said, “and some letters.”

“Awesome on the package,” she said, flipping her hair back. “But if those letters are bills, you can just keep them.”
The joke was old; Whit had heard it a thousand times. Still, he laughed, more out of relief than humor.

Grace took the mail, looked down the stack, and sighed. “Yeah, bills.”

Whit lifted the rear door and slid out the box. It was heavier than it looked.

“I can take this in for you… if you want.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. I was just leaving for work, so perfect timing.”

She dashed up the steps, quick and light, almost graceful—like a deer startled but not afraid. Whit followed, balancing the box on his hip, and the smell of cold pine and shampoo drifted back toward him. She opened the ancient plastic door revealing a plaid blanket blocking the entrance way. Whit sat the box down in front of the door and the girl heaved it past the curtain into the darkness.

“Thanks, Mr. Mailman,” she said.

“I’m Whit,”

“Hi Whit, I’m Grace, but you already know that,” she said and then shut the door. He shook her hand like he’d just sold her a car.

“So you paint?” he asked.

“I took an art class in high school, but really I needed the easel to balance out the grand piano.”

Whit laughed, “I teach painting at the college on Thursday nights, you should come to my class.”

Grace frowned, “Umm don’t think that’s how college classes work.”

“It’s not a college class, it’s adult education. It’s like 100 bucks a semester, but it’s no big deal.”

“Well thanks but I can’t afford real college, don’t have a 100 bucks for your painting class.”

“I can waive the fee, it’s no big deal, I’ve got plenty of supplies.” Whit said a little too quickly.

“OK I work on Thursdays… but.. You got a flyer or something?”

“Yeah one sec,” Whit pulled his camera bag out of the LLV.

Grace walked over and checked out the beat up digital SLR in the bag. “Hey, 5D mark ii, a real classic,” she said.

“Wow, I’m impressed you know cameras.”

Grace shrugged. “My dad used to take wildlife photos, deer, mostly. He had a Canon too, 7D, but he liked shooting film on his old Nikon better.”

“Film’s romantic until you have to pay for it,” Whit said, handing her a folded flyer from the back pocket of the bag. “Here. Thursday nights, six to nine. We’ve got good light, terrible coffee.”

She smiled, studying the paper like it might test her. “You think I could just show up?”

“Sure you’d fit in. But I warn you, the others are a bit older”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Fit in where? I bet it’s all retirees painting barns. Plus I’m not always that popular with some people.”

Was she hinting at being trans? Whit wanted to ask so many questions, but he knew better, he wasn’t even sure. “Mostly,” he admitted. “But the barns are good practice, but I promise you’d fit in.”

She laughed softly. “Maybe. Depends how desperate I get for excitement.”

Whit nodded, pretending he didn’t care either way. “Well, if you change your mind, we’re in Room 104. Back of the art building.”
She folded the flyer and slid it into her boot. “Got it. Thanks, Whit.”

“No problem.”

For a moment neither of them moved. Then she waved, climbed into the old Ford, and started the engine, an uneven rattle that sounded like it might quit any second. Whit watched her taillights bounce down the drive until they disappeared behind the pines.
He stood there a beat longer, the smell of exhaust hanging in the cold air, and thought about how strange it felt to miss someone he’d met five minutes ago. His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket.

A message from Lucy, “What the Fuck is this?” followed with a photo of a package of Bali Comfort stretch briefs, black with lace sides.

“Shit,” Whit said.

Chapter 2: Lucy Sep 8th

Lucy crouched beside the recliner and unlatched the valve on Anothony’s catheter bag. The plastic hissed softly as the urine emptied into the pitcher she kept for this. She checked the line, wiped the spout, and tugged at the edge of his disposable brief, clean, thank God. No mess today.

“OK Anthony lets get you on the toilet,” Lucy said in her loud and forced cheery caregiver voice. The old man fussed, and then cussed but eventually gave in. Lucy helped transfer him to the toilet and encouraged him, but her mind was on the text message from her Mom: call when you get off work.

Truly this job wasn’t bad, how many people get paid $15 dollars cash to watch old westerns half the day. Sure about every other day she had to clean up this old man’s shitty ass, but back when she worked at the nursing home she had to clean up dozens. She should consider herself lucky, Gunsmoke would be on in 15 minutes and Anthony just managed to use the toilet. By Lucy’s standards It’s a good day.

Anthony stayed awake for the whole episode and they occasionally talked about it. She remembered seeing this episode as a kid. Sheriff Matt Dillion has to go pick up a Tomboy from a farm after her Dad dies in town. Her wild independent days are over now, she’s got to learn to be a proper woman. Lucy couldn’t help but think she’d be better off alone on the farm.

After cooking lunch and watching Bonanza, Anthony’s Sister showed up for her shift and Lucy was in her car calling her Mom. As usual no one answered. Lucy sighed and began the 7 minute drive out of town to her parents' trailer.

She parked in gravel and made her way across the yard. Lucy couldn’t help but frown at the sight of her parent’s home, the old trailer had seen better days. The wooden porch sagged and needed to be replaced. Her Mom’s large and cheery flower garden made quite the contrast to the rundown home it surrounded. She found her parents both tucked away in their recliners watching TV, both with their scrubs on ready to go to work.

“I tried to call Mom?” Lucy said, unable to hide her annoyance.

“I’m so sorry honey, you know how bad reception is here, metal roof and all. We were going to just stop by your house. I hate to ask, but can we borrow 40 bucks.” Her Mom asked.

Lucy’s brown furrowed, “Why do you need to borrow 40 bucks Mom?”

“Well your brother called us, and he’s got all the kids tomorrow night. They’re going out to eat and he asked if we wanted to go. You know I wouldn’t ask, but this is about the only way we can see them.” she explained.

Lucy could feel the rage building up, the jealousy, the red and green cloud of envy and anger forming over her eyes. “Seriously Mom, seriously?” she said.

“Just forget about it, I shouldn’t have asked,” her Mom says and looks away. Lucy couldn’t understand it, how in the world did her parents not have 40 dollars? They both worked part time and her Dad got social security now. Besides that, how could they ask her for this knowing how much it hurt.

“You know you should go, you haven’t seen your brother and the kids in a long time,” Lucy’s Mom said.

“That’s because I don’t want to see him Mom, and I don’t really give a shit to see his dumbass kids either.”

Lucy’s Mom huffed, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Lucy looked over at her Dad, his eyes were glued to the TV screen, checked out. “No Mom, I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch as usual.” Lucy took her wallet out of her purse and gave her Mom 40 dollars. She didn’t hesitate to take it.

It wasn’t really the money. Yes, every dollar counted for Lucy, but her parents always paid her back. They weren’t deadbeats, just really bad with money. It was the fact that no one in the world seemed to give a shit. 18 years of marriage, no kids, but her brother had six with two different women. It was hard not to be jealous.

On the drive back to her house Lucy turned up the radio trying to drown out her thoughts. “At least I live in a house,” she said as she pulled into her driveway. As far as houses go in Mud Creek it was nice, Just a bit out of town in a little subdivision. Small, but really too big for just her and Darren. Her eyes lit up at the site of a package in front of the door. She walked in and dropped her purse on their cluttered dining room table that was only actually used for dining twice a year.

“What have you bought Darren?” she said out loud as she opened the bubble mailer and took out the package of panties. “No. Fuck no.” she said and threw the package against the wall. “I can barely afford Hanes! And you're buying this shit! Son of a bitch.”

An hour later Darren Whitlock came in through the back door and immediately walked through the kitchen where Lucy was frying hamburgers. “Hi honey, I’m home.” he said and gave her a quick hug before heading through the house to the front door.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

Darren frowned, “Did I get a package?”

Lucy pointed to the package on the floor where she’d left it, then crossed her arms. “So you’re buying women’s underwear now?”

Whit blinked, and sighed, “Lucy…” He made his way over to pick up the package.

“Why did you buy those?” she said in a calm voice with a fake smile.

Whit shrugged, “Lucy… please just, drop it.”

“That’s all you’ve got? My name?” she snapped. “You can’t even lie about it? That’s where we are?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

“Say something,” Lucy demanded.

“I…” He stared at the floor. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, stepping toward him. “You ordered panties. You know why. Just tell me.”

Whit shook his head, voice tightening. “I can’t. I don’t know… how.”

“That’s bullshit,” Lucy said. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Whit winced.

“You’ve been checked out for months,” she went on. “And now I find this? And you won’t tell me why? You won’t even give me a bad excuse?”

He leaned against the wall as if he needed it to stand. “Lucy, please. I’m trying.”

“No,” she said. “You’re avoiding. There’s a difference.”

He flinched again, eyes damp. Lucy hated the way her chest tightened seeing it. It wasn’t sympathy, it was fear. Fear that she was losing him.

She turned away, grabbed her purse off the table, and slammed it down again. “God, I need a drink.”

Whit inhaled sharply. “Lucy! don’t say that. Please.”

She turned back. “Why? You can order panties off the internet, but I can’t say I feel like having a drink?”

His voice cracked. “You know why, we’ve been through this.”

“That was forever ago.”

“No it wasn’t.” Now he was shaking. “Not for me.”

She stared at him, suddenly thrown off balance. “Well it sure feels like a fucking long time for me!”

“I won’t go through that again Lucy, I won’t.” He wrapped his arms around himself, breathing too fast.

“Then tell me what the fuck is wrong with you, are they for your girlfriend, or for you?”

Darren scoffed, “I don’t have a girlfriend, you know that!”

“OK so they are for you, I guess you want to be a girl again?” Lucy saw that Darren was tightening, like a clock that had been over wound. “Darren, you should sit down,”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re acting like you’re about to”

Before she could finish, Whit slammed his fist hard against the doorframe, which split with a sharp crack. Lucy jumped.

“Darren! What the hell?!”

He pulled his hand back, cradling it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, sinking down until he was sitting on the floor, head in his arms.

“Jesus…” Lucy knelt in front of him. “Whit. Look at me.”

He wouldn’t.

She reached out, hesitated, then touched his shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know who you are half the time.”

He let out a choked breath, not quite a sob. “I don’t either.”

Lucy sat back on her heels, stunned.

The package of panties lay on the floor between them, a stupid pastel landmine in the middle of the kitchen.

Darren’s eyes focused behind his wife, then he jumped up, and ran to the smoking frying pan on the stove, “Shit!” he said as he pulled the frying pan off the burner.

“Goddamn it,” he said as he ran water over the smoking pan. Grease snapped and exploded.

Lucy began to cry, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said not really to Darren.

“It’s fine I’ll order a pizza,” Darren tossed the burned meat in the trash and picked up the panties on his way out of the kitchen. He made beeline for his closet and stashed them in a backpack where he kept a few other odds and ends.

Chapter 3 -Flushed- November 4th 2010

It was well past midnight and Whit was still up at his computer. The dark monitor in front of him split between two windows, one filled with text and the other scrolling through anime style pictures of sissies, elaborately dressed in over the top feminine costumes.

Goodgirl_Sophie
Did you put the panties on like I told you too

Whit swallowed, his fingers clicked the keyboard as he bent forward in the dark.

Secret_Sissy
No, my wife’s asleep. I can’t.

Goodgirl_Sophie
Girl, you’ve got to learn to plan ahead, but whatever.
Be a good girl, tell me how you look.

Whit closed his eyes. He told himself he was going to stop doing this, why was he still doing this? He typed:

Secret_Sissy
I really need to go to bed.

Goodgirl_Sophie
No you don’t, you’re doing exactly what you need to do.
Come on, describe yourself for Daddy.

Whit’s breath caught, his mouth felt dry. He wiped his palms on his legs. He’d done this so many times, yet every time it was hard. Like he had to twist himself to get the words out.

Secret_Sissy
I’m about 5’10” long black hair tied back in a loose ponytail. I’m shy and smile but look down. I’m soft.

Goodgirl_Sophie
Goodgirl, don’t be shy, tell Daddy what you’re wearing.

Whit bent even more forward over the keyboard, he felt his heart beating faster and words flowed out of him.

Secert_Sissy
I’m wearing a satin dress, pink and short, showing off my legs. It’s very girly with lace and ruffles. I have white lace stockings and garter. I have a big pink bow…

Whit’s description was cut off when he heard steps, the door to the computer room was thrust open. Lucy was standing there in her nightgown.

Whit quickly closed the browser, a scenario that had played out many times. But this was different, there was no anger in Lucy’s voice, she was crying.

“Darren, something is wrong, we’ve got to go to the hospital,” He could see blood running down her leg.

Whit couldn’t really remember what happened over the next 4 hours. It was a waiting room, followed by an exam room, nurses taking Lucy and bringing her back. A blur of clipboards, questions, and instructions.

Then crying, so much crying, the only thing that remained vivid in Darren’s mind was Lucy trembling in his arms choking out the same words over and over again:

“They flushed it down the toilet.”
Whit held her, he didn’t cry, didn’t speak, and worst of all inside he felt a hollow space where grief was supposed to be. He wasn't going to be a father after all.

Chapter 4 September 10th 2025

Grace pushed the big shopping cart thing and searched for the specific jar of pickles that had been eluding her for far too long. It wasn’t so much that the job of “personal shopper” at Wal-Mart was hard, it was just very dull. It did have it’s advantages, she could leave her earbud in and listen to music, and she didn’t have to talk to people.

She glanced left and two young guys whose t-shirts confessed their love of hunting and cage fighting were coming her way.

“Umm excuse me, can you help us find cliff bars,” one of them asked.

Grace would have to speak, but she had been preparing for this and lifted her larynx. “It’s in the cereal aisle, by all the granola bars. Two aisles that way,” she said.

She could see both guys’ eyes look at each other and immediately knew what was going on.

“Great thanks,” one said and they went off snickering. “See I told you man, pay up,” he said as other handed him a 5 dollar bill from his wallet.

“Fucking redneck assholes,” Grace said under her breath. She had one more item for this order and quickly found it while fighting back tears. As she pushed her cart towards the back the two guys were coming up the aisle carrying a box of cliff bars.

“Thanks, found them,” he said and then the other started giggling as they walked by.

She wanted to tell them off, but for what? They hadn’t even had the decency to misgender her, she was just a joke to them.

Grace felt the heat climb up her neck. Her throat tightened, her eyes flickering between the cart and the gleaming floor. She kept her head down. Don’t give them anything. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

She pushed the oversized blue cart toward the back, fighting the wobble in her knees. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the whole store suddenly too bright, too loud, too exposed. She made a beeline for the breakroom and grabbed her purse out of her locker and then dashed for the restroom, ignoring the old man eating his lunch.

The moment she shut the door behind her, her breath collapsed out of her. She locked the stall, sat down on the closed toilet seat, and pressed both hands over her eyes.

The tears came immediately, hot, stupid, unstoppable.

“God, why do I keep doing this to myself,” she whispered. No answer, of course.

She dug in her purse for the small composition notebook she kept with her. A cheap one, cover peeling at the corners. She opened to the middle pages, the ones full of cramped handwriting:

Reasons to kill myself

She turned past multiple pages filled with writing.

She clicked her pen and wrote under the left column:

79. Two guys at work settled a bet on whether I was trans.

Her hand shook as she wrote it. She stared at the number, seventy-nine. She hadn’t realized it was that high.

Grace sniffed hard, wiped her face on her sleeve, and forced herself to breathe slowly. In, out. In, out.

Then she flipped to the “Reasons not to” pages.

There were fewer items there. Smaller handwriting. Things like:

I want to go to college
Hormones might help
Maybe I could move someday
The forest
She tapped the pen on the page.

Finally, she wrote:

23 . I want to learn to paint.

She closed the notebook carefully, like something fragile might spill out of it. Another shaky breath. She splashed some water on her face at the sink, trying not to look too closely at her reflection.

Her eyes were still red, but she lifted her chin anyway.

“Okay,” she whispered to the mirror. “Back to work.”

She pressed her earbud back in, turned on her music, and stepped out of the bathroom, one more order to finish, one more hour until lunch.

Grace tied the laces of her worn and stained hiking boots, a gift from her Dad. She attached the 300mm lens to her camera, another gift from her Dad, and starts walking down the gravel past her trailer. She stops to take a picture of the cows standing around in the field to her right. The Minnonites who owned the cows lived up in a house about a mile away. She saw them on their side by side every now and again, but they kept their distance and she kept hers.

In front of her the gravel road deteriorated into rough sandstone. Every so often off roaders would come out here and take the old fire road up into the hills. The early settlers named this area Palestine, which Grace always thought was funny. The Palestinians lived in exile in their own land, and she lived in exile here.

She made her way up the old road and down the first trail, following the dry creek bed. The forest was starting to get good again. The brutal summer humidity was down, the brush was drying up, and the spiders weren’t as thick. It was still green, hot and she had to brush webs off her face. Her feet seemed to be taking her somewhere without any input from her brain, but she knew where she was going. It was a two mile walk, but she had time. Eventually she came to the overlook, a place she frequently walked to.

Grace approached the edge and looked down. It was at least a 40 foot drop, probably not enough to actually kill her. Maybe if she jumped headfirst? Suddenly scared she took a step back. Grace sat down and took in a deep breath, smelling the pines that the CCC planted here 90 years ago to fight erosion. There stepping in between the pines was a deer, a large buck with great antlers. He paid Grace no attention as he slowly walked closer to the overlook.

Grace raised her camera, zoomed in, composed, half pressed the shutter to lock focus, composed again and took the photo. The deer turned and looked in her direction. Grace felt her breath catch in her throat, and took what she was sure was the greatest photo anybody had ever taken in history.

“Paint me,” the deer said clear as day though his mouth didn’t move.

Grace let the camera slowly lower and hang from the strap. She didn’t imagine that, she heard the words spoken with deep masculine authority.

Back in her trailer sitting on the ratty old couch she pulled out her notebook.

24. The Deer

Author's Note: There is a plot, it starts to take off in this chapter, but there will still be chapters that focus more on Whit and Lucy's relationship and trauma. Something I haven't made clear that I will need to in future edits is that the story is taking place in a rural town In Illinois called Mud Creek. It's the kind of place that has very powerful gravity. My three main characters, Lucy, Whit, and Grace are all stuck in Mud Creek. Thank you reading and I so appreciate the comments!

Chapter 5 Dead Battery September 11, 2025

Whit walked into the classroom. Troy and Angie Phelps already at their table with their easels and paintings set up. The older retired couple were his most consistent students and sadly neither of them could paint their way out of a paper bag. But they loved it and that’s all that mattered.

“Hey teach,” the older Mr. Phelps said with a big grin.

“So what have you got for me tonight?” Whit asked.

The old gentleman held up a printed photo of a small country church, “We’re going to paint the old Harvest Chapel. This is where it all started.” Mr. Phelps said with a grin.

Whit checked out the photo of the church, it was small, out of focus and taken in the middle of the day. Colors were washed out, values were crushed, the composition lacked any semblance of balance. He knew it would make a horrible painting.

“Great photo Troy, it’ll make an awesome painting. It’s amazing that Harvest Chapel went from that to, what, 500 people?”

“607 last week,” Angie said. Whit smiled. He did not like Harvest Chapel, the fastest growing church in the whole region, but then again he didn’t really like any church, but it was best not to mention that in these parts.

“We’re saving you and Lucy pew, we hope you can make it Sunday,” Troy said.

“Thanks Troy, I’ll talk to Lucy about it.”

Over the next ten minutes a few more couples and solo students came in while Whit opened up cabinets getting out bottles of acrylic paint, brushes, and canvases. Finally he made his way over to the ancient little CD player in the corner and dropped in “Yanni Live at the Acropolis,” a crowd favorite. He turned to see Lucy walk in.

She took a few cautious steps in and scanned the room until her eyes locked with Whit. She was wearing a long black dress and hiking boots. Whit waved and she smiled. As she walked towards him she saw the Phelpses and her shoulders tightened.

“Grace, I’m so glad you could make it!” he said.

The girl held her sketchbook to her chest like a shield, but smiled. “Yeah, I thought I’d come lower the average age of class a few years,” she said quietly.

Whit laughed, and turned back to the class, “Hey everyone we have a new student joining us tonight, this is Grace, I deliver her mail, and her painting supplies, so I invited her to join us.

The assembled adults all offered polite greetings to which Grace nodded and took a seat. Whit addressed the class, telling them about a few events the college had coming up and announced that everyone would need a painting finished before Thanksgiving for the Fall art exhibition.

Then he turned to Grace, “So what do you want to paint?”

She frowned and opened up her sketchbook showing Whit a pencil drawing of a deer near a cliff. It had a whimsical style, very two dimensional, reminding him of a cave painting. While it was simple it seemed intentionally so. The deer, rocks, and trees were rendered with grace and the composition was grounded in asymmetrical balance.

Whit’s smile grew from ear to ear, “Oh Wow, this is amazing!”

“I didn’t copy it, it came from this,” Grace opened up her phone and showed Whit the photo she had taken the night before.

“Did your Dad take that?” Whit said remembering she said her Dad did photography.

Grace shook her head, “No I did. I got lucky last night.”

Whit felt like he’d won the art student lottery, this girl was an amazing photographer, and she could draw. “If you send that to me I’ll print it out for you,” Whit said. A few minutes later Grace had a 16x20 Canvas, and a full page print of the deer photograph.

Whit grabbed a book from a nearby shelf and flicked through to images of cave paintings, “This might be helpful for reference, but really I think your sketch should be your primary guide. You’ll need to figure out how you want to approach color. There are some color pencils in the drawer over there if you want to experiment in your sketchbook.” He spent a few minutes contemplating her line style, and the sense of balance and unity her sketch showed.

Grace blinked at him, surprised at how easily he moved through art principles, like someone who did this a living.

“Sounds great, I wish you were my high school art teacher, I might have not dropped out,” Grace said with a laugh.

White smiled and nodded, then began moving around the room to help other students.

As the students filed out for break, Troy and Angie hung back, hovering near Whit’s paint cart. When the door finally shut behind the last person, Angie leaned in.

“I’m real glad you invited Grace,” she said. “This will be really good for them.

“Yeah… They’ve had a tough time, I’m sure this is good for them,” Troy said.

Whit tilted his head confused by the sudden they/them pronouns. He leaned in close, realizing that he was about to receive some good ol fashioned gossip, “I’ve been trying to figure out why she’s living in that dump out in the boonies, seems like she’s the only one living there.”

“You don’t know about them?” Angie asked.

“Know what?” Whit asked.

Angie lowered her voice. “Her name wasn’t always Grace. It used to be Grayson. She’s… one of those transgender kids.”

Whit looked back at the empty door, “Grace, that girl?” he asked.

Troy nodded, happy to keep the story going now that the seal was broken.
“Family lived over in Rado. They used to go to Harvest with us. Good folks. But the dad left a couple years back. And then, on the kid’s junior year, they caught him, or well, her, I guess, sneakin’ girl clothes to school. Changing in the bathroom and all that.”

Angie made a noise in her throat, something between pity and disapproval.

Troy continued, “Parents tried to put a stop to it. Didn’t work. She ran off for a bit. Came back. Now she’s livin’ out at her dad’s old huntin’ cabin. People say he’s lettin’ her stay there, but nobody really knows.”

Whit felt his stomach drop, “Wow, that’s crazy. I hope she’s OK.”

“We’re praying that he comes to his senses, and whatever devil got in him to turn him like that, gets out.” Angie said.

Whit had no words to form a reply, he just nodded.

“The worlds a sick place Whit, poor kids these days are being raised by sickos on the internet, turning em into fruit cakes.” Tory said.

Whit faked a smile, “I’ve got to go to the restroom.” He made a beeline for men’s room and sat down on the toilet. This couldn’t be a coincidence could it? The universe was trying to tell him something. He knew he had to talk to her, but how could he without coming off like a creep.

Whit stood up and flushed the empty toilet and went to wash his hands. “This too shall pass,” he told his reflection in the mirror and went back to class.

Whit nodded goodbye to the janitor and walked out to the parking lot, there parked a few spots back from his Jeep was Grace’s truck under the yellow halo of the lights. She was standing beside it looking at her phone.

Grace looked up from her phone, “Won’t start,” she said.

Whit looked over the 30 year old truck, taking in it’s rust holes and mismatched tires. He took a deep breath, “OK, let me check it out.”

Whit was no automotive expert, but his Dad believed in getting his money’s worth which often meant crawling around under the hood trying to fix things. Grace thanked him profusely as he slid in the cab and turned the key. The truck made a clicking sound.

“Dead battery, did you leave your lights on?” he asked. Grace was sure she hadn’t. Whit pulled his car around and pulled out some jumper cables. Without thinking about it he began giving Grace a lesson in how to jump a battery. Soon the old Ford truck fired up.

Whit dropped the hood with a bang and turned to Grace. “I’ve got bad news for you, your batteries 6 years old. You’ve got to get another one,” he explained.

“Shit, well thank you so much. I’ll see if I can figure it out. Thanks for inviting me to the class,” she said.

Whit rolled up the jumper cables and started to get in his car, but stopped. “A battery is like 100 bucks, can you afford one?”

“No, at least not for a week,” Grace said as she stepped in.

“OK, look, it probably won’t start tomorrow. I’ll buy you one and you can pay me back next week, OK?” he asked.

Grace shook her head, “I really can’t do that, thank you though.”

“Grace if your truck can’t start, what are you going to do out there in the middle of nowhere?”

The girl looked at her rear view mirror then turned around and shrugged.

“It’s no big deal, just follow me to the Rural King, alright?”

Grace nodded.

An hour later Whit dropped the hood of the truck again and wiped dark grease onto his old paint stained jeans. Grace was beaming, “Mr. Whitlock, you must be the nicest person in Mud Creek.”

Whit smiled, “Just keep coming to class, you’re too good an artist not to.” he said.

“I will, and now I owe you one.” Whit reached out for a handshake and Grace took it then squeezed in for a hug.

Whit smiled and started walking back to his car but he felt the weight hit him. The pressure of countless sleepless nights. This couldn’t be a coincidence could it? The universe was trying to tell him something/

Whit quickly turned around as Grace shut the door. “Wait!” like from a scene from a cheesy Romantic Comedy that he pretended to hate.

Grace rolled the window down, “Yes Mr. Whitlock?”

“How did you know?”

She scrunched up her brow. ‘How did I know what?”

Whit looked around and stepped up close to the window, “How did you know you were a girl?” he asked.

Grace’s smile evaporated and she shook her head. “Great, this is why you’re being nice.”

“No.. No I…”

Grace cut him off, “Well look, how do you know you are a boy?”

“I don’t know. Or erm, I’m not sure that I am a… Boy.”

Grace blinked.
“Oh. Oh.”
She let out a shaky breath. “That’s not where I thought this was going.”

Whit winced, already stepping back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I should go.”

“No.” Grace put a hand out, not touching him,. “You asked an honest thing. I can answer it.”

Whit froze halfway out

Grace stared out the windshield, her voice soft but steady.
“I was six. Sitting in church with my mom and dad. And these girls came out to perform a song… all in matching dresses. Big, floofy monstrosities. Petticoats everywhere.” She laughed under her breath. “They looked ridiculous. But I wanted one. I wanted one so bad it hurt.”

Whit felt like he could melt.

Grace turned and looked at him. “I didn’t have a word for it. I didn’t know what it meant. But I knew.”

She tapped her chest lightly. “In here, I knew that I was a girl.”

Whit was silent for a long moment. Above him the Rural King parking lot lights buzzed thick with the late summer insects and trying to get closer to the light. Whit was crying.

“I’ve got to go, I’m sorry,” he said.

“OK, thanks for helping me again, and you’ve got my number if you want to talk or something,” Grace said. Whit nodded, wiped his eyes and drove home lighter then he’d felt in years.

Chapter 6. Lucy Wal-Mart September 12th

Lucy’s feet hurt, it hadn’t been a good day. First Anthony had a really bad day. His dementia was worse, he kept trying to leave and go to work. The more she tried to correct him the more argumentative he became. Then to make matters worse he shit himself.

After that it was a trip to the vet for their cat, Mistletoe. . Top all that off with a trip to Wal-Mart and Lucy just wanted to go home and put her head in the sink. She had one final item on her list, canned pineapple.

A young man pushing an oversized shopping cart was standing nearby on his phone. “Excuse me sir, do you know where the pineapple is?” she asked.

“The boy dropped his phone in his pocket and sighed then clicked his airpod. “What?” he asked with obvious annoyance.

“Sorry, I’m just looking for pineapple,” Lucy said again.

The young man rolled his eyes and jutted his finger out, “Fruits and vegetables are that way,” he said. He clicked his airpod and started to leave.

“No I’m not wanting a fresh pineapple, I want canned pineapple,” Lucy explained.

The young man clicked his earbudy again and spun around, under his Wal-Mart vest was a black T-shirt depicting a mouth full of razor teeth and wicked eyes, emblazoned with the word “Disturbed.”

“Look at the signs lady, next aisle, Fruits and Vegetables, can’t you read?” he said and shot off.

Lucy felt rising humiliation, “I can read,” she said but the boy was already gone. The damn burst and tears flowed.

Lucy stood there, cheeks burning, tears spilling before she could stop them. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to get control, but the humiliation of being scolded like a child after the day she’d had was too much.

She turned into the next aisle, and there was the pineapple right in front of her. She snagged a can off the shelf. “Why am I the one crying?” she asked between tears.

She leaned against her cart, breathing hard, the bright fluorescent lights turning everything sharp and loud. Her eyes blurred again. She hated crying in public, hated that the stupid pineapple had been the thing that did her in.

A soft shuffle of footsteps approached, slow and hesitant.

“Um… excuse me?”

Lucy looked up. A young woman in a navy Wal-Mart vest stood a few feet away, hands clasped nervously in front of her. She was soft, friendly looking, with her hair pulled back and her eyes wide the way someone looks when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to speak.

“Are you Okay?” she asked.

Lucy blinked hard, embarrassed. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, wiping at her face.

The girl took one small step closer and held out a neatly folded Kleenex.
“You’re not,” she said softly. “But that’s okay.”

Lucy took it without thinking. “Thank you.”

The girl nodded, but didn’t smile. She looked like she wanted to, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Lucy inhaled shakily, pressing the tissue to her eyes. “It’s just been a really hard day.”

The girl nodded again, slowly. “I get that.”

Lucy looked at her more closely, taking in the vest, the posture, the quietness. Her gaze dropped to the nametag clipped to the girl’s chest.

GRACE.

Lucy’s breath caught. “Grace?” she said before she could stop herself.

Grace stiffened, hands twisting in front of her. “Um… yeah?”

“My husband, Whit, teaches the painting class at the college. He mentioned a Grace.”

Grace’s eyes widened with something like fear, like she was waiting for a blow that hadn’t landed yet. “He… did?”

“He did,” Lucy said, softening. “He said you were talented.”

Grace blinked rapidly, as though no one had said something kind to her in weeks.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Um… thank you. Your husband is a good teacher.”

Lucy managed a watery smile. “You didn’t have to help me. I appreciate it.”

Grace shrugged, looking down. “Most people don’t cry in the canned fruit aisle,” she said, trying for humor. It came out small. “I figured… someone should care.”

Lucy let out a shaky breath, “More people should care,”

Grace glanced toward the end of the aisle. “I should get back to filling my cart for the people too cool to come in here and shop. They’ve probably got an AI watching me.”

“Of course.”

Grace hesitated, just long enough to show she wanted to say more, then gave a tiny nod and walked away, pushing her cart of boxes, shoulders slightly hunched.

Lucy watched her disappear around the corner.

She wiped her eyes one more time and whispered to no one:

“Whit was right about her.”

And for the first time all day, the knot in her chest loosened.

***

The groceries were put away, Whit was home from work and they both sat down on the couch with slices of a frozen pizza. “I saw that new student of yours, Grace, today,” Lucy said.

Whit froze in mid bite, “Umm, yeah, where at?”

“She works at Wal-Mart, she was really nice, some asshole worker made me cry and she gave me a tissue.”

Whit sat his pizza down, “Wait, what, who made you cry, what happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know some worker there, it was nothing, he just said something rude. But Grace seems really nice,” Lucy said.

“I wish I’d been there. I'd give that kid a piece of my mind.”

“I was no big deal,” Lucy said and took another bite.

White felt a rising panic, yeah he was annoyed some kid made his wife cry, but even more worried what Grace might have told her. He tried to act cool, and slowly turned. His face was too blank, too careful. “What… exactly did she say?”

Lucy blinked. “Why do you ask it like that?”

Like what? Just curious.” He dried his hands on a towel though they weren’t wet.

Lucy studied him, a knot forming.

“She didn’t say much, Whit. Just that most people didn’t cry in the canned fruit aisle, oh she said you were a good teacher.”

Whit exhaled, maybe a little too hard. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

Lucy frowned. “Are you worried about her for some reason?”

“No,” Whit said quickly. “No, I just, it’s fine.”

Lucy watched him a moment longer. He wouldn’t look at her.

Something strange passed through her chest, suspicion. No, Whit wasn’t messing around with this girl, there’s no way.”

“She seems very sweet,” Lucy said softly.

Whit nodded without speaking.

Lucy got up and went to the fridge and leaned against the counter. “You really like her as a student, don’t you?”

Whit swallowed. “Yeah. She’s… very talented, and she’s also all alone as far as I can tell. Living in a dump out in the woods and she’s… I’m just worried about her.”

Lucy didn’t know what that meant. But she knew how it felt. Like there was more here than he was saying.

They finished eating in silence and then Lucy turned to her husband, “We have to talk about the other night. I’m sorry I made you so upset, I just don’t understand what’s going on. I thought you were done with that stuff?”

Whit’s chest tightened like a vice.
He knew exactly what she meant.
The clothes.
The dressing.
The thing he’d sworn years ago he’d buried.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I…” His voice cracked before it even started.

Lucy stepped closer, her expression uncertain,not angry, not judgmental. Just scared. “Whit, I’m your wife. You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

Wrong.
The word hit like a hammer.

Whit dragged a hand through his hair and stepped back, needing distance he couldn’t explain.

“There’s nothing wrong,” he lied. Too fast. Too sharp.

Lucy’s face pinched. “Whit…”

He turned away, gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened.
He didn’t want to lie to her.
He didn’t want to hide from her.
He wanted, God, he wanted, to say it out loud.
The thing bubbling up in him ever since he’d sat in that truck with Grace.
The thing he was terrified even to think.

But saying it would break the world open.
Saying it would make it real.
Saying it would mean Lucy would look at him differently forever.

“I’m just tired,” he said finally, voice rough. “I’m… I’m overwhelmed. Work’s been busy, the class. You know it was just something I do alone to unwind.”

It was cowardly.
He knew it.
Lucy knew it too.

She swallowed. “I feel like you’re hiding from me.”

Whit closed his eyes.
Because he was.
Because the truth lived bottled up in his chest, clawing its way up his throat.

“I’m not hiding,” he whispered.
Another lie.

Lucy stepped forward and touched his arm lightly, like she wasn’t sure he’d let her. “I love you, Whit. I just need you with me. Not… somewhere else.”

He looked at her hand on his sleeve and placed his over it. No wedding rings. Both lost over twenty years of life and never bothered to replace.

He wanted to tell her. Wanted to trust her with it.

But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not tonight.

He gently pulled his arm back and managed a strained smile. “I’m here,” he said. “I promise.”

Lucy nodded, but her eyes said she didn’t believe him.

Chapter 7, Whit, October 27, 1998

Darren Whitlock is following his mother through Wal-Mart with his head down.

“No Mom, I’m not doing Halloween this year, I’m 12 years old now. Besides, I haven't dressed up in years.”

“Come on Darren, it could be fun, you could help hand out candy, and surely someone’s having a costume party,” his Mom said.

“Mom, no, I’m not doing it,” Darren said.

“I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, all you want to do is sit in your room and draw from your silly books. You used to love dressing up.”

It’s true, Darren loved dressing up, until about the 2nd grade. That was when he noticed how different the girl’s costumes were. Girls could be princesses, witches, and genies, he was stuck as something lame. Anyway, dressing up was embarrassing, people would laugh at him, he was better just as himself.

“I’m going to look at cards,” Darren said.

“Don’t you want to help me pick out Halloween candy?” his Mom asked.

“No,” Darren said as he sulked away. He found himself drifting across the store, taking a round about path to where the collectable card games were. He cut through the girl’s clothing section then stopped when he realized he was alone.

Early this day he had read a fashion article in the school newspaper written by Stephanie Crawford, a girl that he’d had a crush on for months. The article covered fall fashions and mentioned how sunflower prints and layered pastels were “totally in right now.” Darren had pretended not to care, but he’d read the article twice, tracing the pictures with his eyes.

He hadn’t expected to find the clothes right in front of him.

There, on a rack endcap under a flickering fluorescent light, hung a soft yellow ribbed sweater with tiny embroidered sunflowers near the collar. It was simple, not fancy like the stuff in the mall catalogs, but it still made something bloom warm and anxious in his chest.

He stepped closer. No one was around.

He reached out and pinched the sleeve between two fingers.

Soft. Softer than any shirt he’d ever owned. The kind of soft that made your brain go quiet.

He glanced around again. Still alone.

He lifted the hanger just enough to hold it at eye level. The sweater was shaped in a way he couldn’t describe, gentle somehow. Pretty without trying. The way girls at school could be pretty without trying.

He imagined wearing it.

The thought hit him like a punch, bright, dizzying, wrong, right, everything all at once.

His heart thudded.

“Now that’s a cute one,” a voice said right behind him.

Darren nearly dropped the sweater. He spun around.

An older woman in a blue Wal-Mart vest stood there, smiling like she’d walked in on something adorable. Her gray hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she had a name tag that read Marjorie.

“You picking that out for your girlfriend?” she asked warmly.

Darren’s cheeks went nuclear. “N-No, I’m… it’s I was just…”

Marjorie winked. “Good boyfriend,” she said. “Girls love when boys pay attention to the little details. Sunflowers are real in style right now. She’ll be thrilled.”

Darren’s mouth opened and closed like a caught fish. “I.. I don’t…”

But Marjorie had already moved on, pushing her cart of folded sweaters down the aisle.

Mortification flooded him. His ears felt like they were burning holes through his skull.

He was holding a girl’s sweater.

He dropped it back onto the rack so fast it nearly fell to the floor, then hurried away, head ducked low, trying not to look at anything or anyone else.

He didn’t stop until he reached the back of the store where the trading cards were kept. Magic: The Gathering, Pokémon, a lonely stack of baseball cards no one touched anymore.

His pulse finally slowed when he saw the familiar Magic the gathering packs sitting in a wire rack.

Safe.
Normal.
Boy stuff.

He picked up a pack and turned it over in his hand, trying to breathe, trying to forget the sweater, trying to forget the way it had made him feel solid and soft all at once.

But the memory clung to him like static.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could unzip himself and step into someone else’s skin.

Someone who could wear a yellow sweater without the world turning and looking at him like he’d committed a crime.

“Hey, you play?” Darren spun around to see an overweight young man, with dark black hair and beard standing behind him.

Darren looked down at the packs in his hand “Not really, I have a few cards,” he said.

“Well don’t waste your money on that 6th edition trash, look here, this is Urza’s block. You could get some rare stuff here.” The man said.

Darren looked at the box of trading cards that was kind of buried in the rack and took out two packs. “OK, thanks,” he said.

“Yeah, no problem. My name is Steve. Do you know the gaming store up on the square, The Tower?”

“Yeah, I bought a D&D book there,” Darren.

The guy made a funny gesture over the box of cards like he was doing a magic trick and pulled a pack from it. “For good luck I hope,” he chuckled, “We always play Magic on Friday nights. If you catch me up there I’ll give you a bunch of cards, crap cards, but still you can make some decks with your buddies and practice.”

“That’s so cool, thanks!,” Darren replied. The shame and strange feelings took a back seat to this exciting new development in his life.

Chapter 8 September 18th 2025

Whit’s phone buzzed at 9:02AM

Grace: I’ll be at class tonight, if you’re free after the class I think we should talk.

It had been a week since he heard from Grace. He thought he dodged a bullet, that she'd just forget his little admission in the Rural King parking lot. Everyday he lingered at her mailbox just a bit too long wondering if she’d come back to class or ignore the creepy old man.

Whit looked up just in time to see he was about to run off the road.

“Shit!” he yelled and jerked the little mail truck back into the lane. “Get it together Whit,” he said.

Whit put his focus back on his job, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the text. She probably just wanted to tell him he was a creepy old man and he needed to back off. Maybe she wanted to talk about art? Surely she didn’t want to talk about being trans.

“I should just tell her I’m busy,” Whit said to his rear view mirror.

“I can't be hanging out with a 18 year old, she’s a kid.”

“If Lucy found out she’d kill me.”

At the next mailbox Whit sent a text.

Whit: Sounds good.

***

“Great job on the underpainting, Grace. I look forward to seeing where you take this,” Whit said, then quickly made his way to another student.
He glanced back and caught Grace making a funny face at him and giggling. She was enjoying his discomfort.

Still, Whit went out of his way to treat her like he would any other student, to the point where it came off more like awkward avoidance.

He leaned over Troy and Angie Phelps’ table and groaned inwardly at their cliche subject matter. They were both painting Bob Ross style barn scenes. Whit could almost hear the TV painter’s voice in his head.

“A happy little rabbit could live in this thicket, and he is probably friends with the raccoon who comes by the barn every night. It is your world, friends.” Angie’s painting was actually pretty good. Troy, on the other hand… well, he liked to paint.

“Hey Whit, that reminds me, I have an important date for you. We have a big name speaker coming to Harvest Chapel on October 27th through November 2nd,” Troy said.

“We are having a big, old fashioned tent revival. We got a well-known pastor coming up from Tennessee, Levi Hale. I am sure you have heard of him,” Angie said.

“Can’t say I have,” Whit replied.

Troy beamed. “Well, he is a man who tells it like it is. He is not afraid of cancel culture or the wokesters up north. It is going to build a lot of spirit around here.”

“Well, sounds great. I will put it on my calendar,” Whit said.

“It is a collaboration between us and Friends of Jesus, so it is going to be huge,” Angie added.

Whit blinked. That name meant something.
“I think that is where Lucy’s mom and dad go to church,” he said.

“Yeah, they are a smaller church, but their pastor is the one who got Brother Levi to come to Mud Creek,” Troy said.

Whit excused himself from the conversation.

Lucy’s parents went to one of those batshit crazy small churches. He had met their pastor. The man was a three-hundred-pound idiot who preached about how food stamps were making everyone lazy, all to a congregation who mostly received food stamps.

This Levi Hale guy was probably even worse. Just what the town needed, another leech.

***

Whit walked over and closed the door of the classroom. Grace was still at the sink cleaning her palette. Whit walked around the room, checking corners like he expected an ambush. He saw Grace smiling at him.

“The coast is clear sir,” she said with a chuckle.

“So you wanted to talk?” Whit asked, ignoring the joke.

Grace frowned and furrowed her brow, “Do I want to talk? You’re acting like we’re going to do something illegal. I sent you a text because you were upset last week. That is all.”

“I was not upset,” Whit said too quickly.

“Right,” Grace replied. “You just reach out to every transgirl you meet after doing them a favor.”

Whit opened his mouth, then closed it. He could not meet her eyes.

Grace sighed. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, that is fine. I get it. You can go back to pretending everything is normal.”

She picked up her backpack and started toward the door.

“Wait,” Whit said. It came out rough. “Grace, wait. I am sorry. I do want to talk. I just didn’t want the entire class seeing us… talking.”

Grace turned slowly. She studied him for a beat. “Because you are worried about looking unprofessional?”

“Something like that,” Whit muttered.

Before Grace could reply, the door jerked open behind them. The janitor stepped inside rolling a mop bucket. Both of them jumped.

“Oh. Did not think anyone was still in here,” the man said.

Grace hugged her bag tighter. Whit cleared his throat. “We were just finishing up.”

“Take your time,” the janitor said, already moving toward the sink.

Whit and Grace exchanged a startled, embarrassed look and slipped out of the room.

In the hallway, Whit rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn't mean to act weird.”

Grace walked beside him toward the exit. “It’s fine you are weird.” Grace said and chuckled.

They stepped out into the parking lot. The yellow lights buzzed, a few students were milling about after night classes, but the parking lot was mostly empty. Grace glanced toward the line of cars.

“Oh, I almost forgot” Grace pulled open her purse and took out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to Whit. “For the battery.”

He put up his hand. “It was a gift, don’t worry about it.”

“Mr. Whitfield, that will be leaving me in your debt,” Grace said with a smile.

“Consider it a scholarship, put it in your college fund or buy some new brushes.”

“OK, I’m hungry, let's go get something to eat, let me buy you supper, maybe you’ll feel more like talking. We could go to John’s Cafe. That dump never closes, but their burgers are good.”

Whit felt his stomach twist. A diner. A public booth. A young woman sitting across from him. People looking. People wondering.

But he used to hang out at John’s Cafe all the time when he was younger. His parents hated it, they told him that was where losers hung out at midnight. But it was the perfect place for deep conversations about the universe and his parents never got out of the shallow end of the pool. Whit felt like he was climbing the ladder of the high dive.

“That is probably the best place,” he said. “If you want to.”

Grace gave him a small, patient smile. “Yeah. I want to.”

The door of her beat up F150 creaked and she got in.

He sent Lucy a text, “Some of us are grabbing a bite to eat after class, be home late.”

***

The Thursday night crowd was pretty thin, they took a booth in the back. A few eyes drifted towards them but quickly looked away. Whit didn’t recognize anyone.

They ordered burgers, and when the waitress walked away Grace crossed her arms on the table and gave him a warm, almost playful smile, “So, why are you a mailman in Mud Creek?” she asked.

Whit rubbed the back of his neck. “Mud Creek is not that bad.”

Grace gave him a look that said come on.

He sighed. “My wife, Lucy and I grew up here. She likes it. We have family here. My parents needed help for a while, and I didn’t want to leave them. One thing led to another and… well, life happened.”

Grace nodded slowly. “That still does not answer the question. Why are you delivering mail in a town you outgrew twenty years ago?”

Whit hesitated. The truth stung. “Its a good job, its steady. I feel useful. And honestly, I do not need to be some big city artist. I am married. I have responsibilities.”

Grace stared at him like she could see every excuse for what it was.

“Do you have kids?” she asked.

Whit paused, he hated this question. “No, we tried, didn’t work out.”

Grace tilted her head down, “I’m sorry,” she said.

Whit felt cornered and tried to steer the conversation away. “Why do you live out in the woods in a trailer?”

Grace did not flinch. “Because it is the only place I have. My mom did not want me around anymore. My dad left but said I could live in his hunting cabin. Wal-Mart doesn’t pay much and I like having a roof over my head. Even if it’s rusty metal.”

Whit felt his chest tighten at her matter-of-fact tone.

Grace lifted her chin slightly. “Your turn. Why do you stay?”

“It is complicated,” Whit said.

“So is my life,” Grace replied.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then stared at the water ring under his glass.

“Most of the people I grew up with couldn’t wait to leave. I used to think staying here made me a good person,” he said quietly. “Like it meant I was loyal or something. But lately I feel like I am stuck in something I can’t explain.”

Grace studied him, softer now. “I guess we’re both stuck in Mud Creek then.”

Whit swallowed and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “The other night, in the parking lot. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped that on you.”

Grace shook her head, “You didn’t dump anything on me, you saved me. You asked me how I know I’m trans that night, I thought at first you were going to try to preach to me or something. But that wasn’t it was it? Why did you ask me that?”

Whit felt like a deer in headlights, he was about to get ran over. “I feel like… like my life does not match who I am inside.”

Grace held his gaze. “I kind of guessed that.”

Whit’s breath caught. “How?”

Grace smiled sadly. “Because I know what hiding looks like.”

Whit sat up straight with a jolt when he noticed the waitress in his peripheral vision, “Here you guys go, burgers and onion rings for the lady, and fries for the gentleman.”

Grace tore into her burger like a kid. Whit rubbed his palms on his jeans and put ketchup on his plate. He started to take a bite, and then stopped.

“There is something I need to say,” Whit murmured.

“Okay,” Grace said.

“It is embarrassing.”

Grace shrugged. “So is most of my life.”

He gave a small, humorless smile, then looked down at the table. “Back when I was younger. I found something online. About people like me. Or people who thought like me. It explained why I felt the way I did.”

Grace leaned in a little. “What kind of thing?”

Whit inhaled slowly. “Autogynephilia.”

Grace sat the burger down and wiped her mouth. “Autogynephilia,” she said with disgust.

“It is the idea that some men want to be women because it turns them on,” Whit said. “Like it is a fetish or a perversion. Like the only reason someone would want to be female is because it gets them excited.”

Grace stared at him for a moment.

“I know what fucking autogynephilia is. It’s stupid,” she said.

Whit’s head snapped up. “It’s not stupid. It made sense. At least it explained why I… why I…” He trailed off, feeling the heat rush to his face.

“Whit. Come on,” Grace said. “That is ancient pseudoscience trash. Have you been to a therapist this decade?.”

“I’ve never been to a therapist. You don’t understand,” Whit said. He felt his voice tighten. “It fits me perfectly.”

Grace softened. “How did you find out about that term?”

Whit took a drink of his coke before answering. “When I was like 13 my parents got the internet. I did a search for guys who want to be girls, and I read about it.”

“You were a kid reading garbage on a dial-up connection. How long did you believe it?”

“Still do,” Whit whispered.

Grace shook her head. “No you don’t. You are scared it might be true. That is different.”

Whit swallowed hard. “It explains the… why I do what I do. It explains why I’m different from you.”

Grace leaned forward slightly. “Different from me how?”

Whit stared at the table. “You knew. You figured it out when you were a teenager. You had the courage to say it out loud. You were not confused. You were not…” His voice tightened. “You were not messed up the way I am.”

Grace sighed. “Whit. My parents took me to a therapist who told me I was a pervert. My mom prayed over me with her church friends like I had a demon. I thought I was disgusting too. I stopped believing their lies and you didn’t.”

Whit’s breath caught.

“You are not different from me,” Grace said. “You just had a twenty year head start on hating yourself, and there is way better information for us on the internet now.”

Whit felt tears, he was going to lose it, he quickly turned his head and looked out the window.

Grace let him sit in that silence for a few seconds. Then she spoke carefully.

“Whit, listen. Men do not spend decades tormented because of a fetish. People with fetishes get off on licking feet, or getting pee’d on then they go to sleep happy. You are not sleeping well are you?”

Whit flinched.

Grace leaned her forearms on the table. Her voice dropped to something gentle and precise.

“You are not a fucking autogynephilic, because it’s a made up bullshit term for people who weren’t allowed to be themselves when they were young. You are scared you might be a woman.”

Whit felt something collapse in his chest. He tried to breathe but it felt like the air had turned thick.

“That is not true,” he whispered.

Grace looked at him without any pity, only clarity. “Then tell me what it is.”

He could not.

His throat worked around the words that would not come. His jaw began to tremble. He took off his glasses and brushed tears out of his eyes.

Grace glanced back, then leaned in close and handed him a napkin, “Go out to my truck, I’ll pay and be right there. Don’t leave OK?”

Whit nodded. It dawned on him that he was taking orders from a kid, “Can you get my food?” he asked.

Grace smiled, “Of course.”

A few minutes later she slid into the truck, Whit was staring at the dashboard.

“Thanks,” he took the clamshell box. “I better get going,” Whit said and started to open the passenger door.

Grace grabbed his arm and tugged, “Wait, you read one bad thing when you were a dumb kid and you’ve let it ruin your whole life. You’re not a freak, and you don’t have to be ashamed.”

Whit pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Grace, please, you’re a good kid, thanks for trying to make an old man feel better about himself, but you can stop.”

Grace shook him, “Stop trying to run and hide for once in your life. Your not an auto fucking gynephiliac!”

Whit’s voice raised. “Then what am I god gamn it?”

Grace held his gaze, steady as a hand on the back of a drowning swimmer.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

Whit froze.

Grace’s voice stayed soft. “The one you call yourself when nobody can hear.”

Whit looked over at Grace and pressed his hands together in his lap. He could feel his breath, his heartbeat. He didn’t feel like a character in an RPG, this was his life. What he did not realize was that, for the first time in years, he was not floating away from himself. He was here. He was in his body. He was living the moment instead of watching it from somewhere else.

The tears gathered again, but his jaw stayed tight.

He opened his mouth.

“I… I do have a name,” he said.

Grace nodded once. “Good. Say it.”

He breathed in, slow, shaky, like a final breath.

“Sarah, my name is Sarah Whitlock.”

Marley looked up from behind the wheel she was truing as she heard the bell attached to the door. "Great, two bimbos," she thought as she watched the two young women enter the bike shop. She put the spoke wrench down and wiped her hands on the the worn denim apron then walked out to the sales floor. It was a Wednesday afternoon and she was closing the shop, which meant besides fixing bikes she had to deal with customers, which was far from her favorite activity. She removed the shop worn apron and hung it on a peg, "Can I help you?" Marley asked.
"We're looking for bikes," the taller girl said. They both wore matching Pi Beta Phi Sorority sweatshirts and had the carefree look of girls who'd never had to deal with real life, Marley thought. She instantly disliked them.
"Well you've come to the right place, here let me show you a few," Marley said. She moved her thin body gracefully through the crowded shop, and to a row of cruiser style bikes that were popular with college students. "These are great for getting around campus," she said.
"Well actually we are looking for something a bit more like race bikes," the tall girl said again. She was taller than Marley, and very athletic looking.
"We're going to train for the Little 500," the shorter blond said.
"Oh, you're going to race it next year?" Marley asked.
"Yeah, I'm the Pi Beta Phi coach, team captain, and whatever else they decide to make me do." the taller girl said.
"You haven't raced it before?" Marley asked.
"No last year the team was mostly Seniors, but our house doesn't take it seriously. I spoke out that we should do better than last place, and thanks to my big mouth I'm in charge now," the taller girl said.
"It's good you've got like 6 months to get ready, and you definitely want a drop bar bike to train on. You can spend alot of money on a road bike, but you don't really need to, let me show you what we have," Marley said as she directed the girls over to the bargain area of the shop. "These bikes are about the cheapest drop bar bikes we've got, at about 600 dollars, but they're way nicer then the coaster brake bikes you'll be riding. Marley gave an overview of the bikes, and found that her customers were both engaged, asking questions and genuinely interested.
"I'm Stacey, by the way, and this is Brita," Stacey said and held out her hand.
"I'm Marley," she said and carefully took Stacey's hand noting that it was just as big as her own.
"Do you own this shop?" Stacey asked.
"Oh no, I just work here, fix bikes and stuff, part time, I'm going to school too," Marley answered.
"Oh thats so cool, what's your major?" Stacey asked.
"Physical therapy, what's yours?" Marley asked.
"Marketing and communications, I love your outfit, that shirt is so cute." Marley looked down at her T-shirt, it showed a boy pedaling like crazy on a bike with a girl riding on the back wearing a long black dress with a big red bow. Marley's outfit was completed with tights and a short skirt with decorative buttons up the front, and Doc Martin Boots sort of a cute punk look.
"Thanks, Marley said and blushed a bit.
"Kiki, is one of my favorites," Stacey said.
"You know Kiki's Delivery Service, that is so cool," Marley said.
"Yeah I love Ghibli, Howl's Moving Castle is my favorite," Stacey said. Brita lightly punched her in the side and made a noise. "Oh, Brita has a date or something, we'll definitely take the bikes." Marley gave the bikes a quick adjustment, and adjusted the saddles. Stacey bought both bikes on a credit card and thanked Marley for the help.
"Oh, if you guys are interested, we do shop rides on Tuesday and Thursday nights, I usually ride on Thursdays. It would be good practice for you to get used to riding around others," Marley said.
"That sounds awesome, thanks!" Stacey said while Brita hurried her out the door. Marley watched the girls clumsily mount their new bikes and ride down the sidewalk, her eyes following Stacey until she rode out of sight.
"Calm down girl, she's not your type." Marley said out loud to herself and put her apron back on.

Marley rolled her pink spray painted beater bike into the communal bike rack, scanned her card to enter the apartment building, and made her way to the 3rd floor. "Hey," she said and dumped her messenger bag on the kitchenette counter. Amy rolled over on the couch and sat down her Psychology book. The apartment the two girls shared was far more spacious than a dorm room, tasteful Japanese art prints were interspersed with brightly colored anime posters, there was little in the way of furniture, other than a couch and coffee table. The four bicycles hanging from the ceiling on hooks were dead giveaway that this was the home of a serious cyclist.
"You're late," Amy said in her detached monotone voice.
"Yeah I sold a couple bikes to some sorority girls and had to finish the repair work I was doing," Marley said as she flopped onto her bed.
"I hope you get paid for that extra time," Amy replied.
"Yes Mr. Scrooge I did, they were buying their bikes for the Little 500," Marley said.
"Let me guess, they were bubbly, friendly, and invited you to a 'mixer' or some other social event," Amy said.
"They were friendly, and one of them liked my shirt."
"Ahh, perhaps you can start watching your cartoons with her, and stop torturing me with them," Amy said.
"You know you like them, anyway it got me thinking, why haven't you ever done the Little 5?" Marley asked.
"Because it's a stupid event, you ride dumb little under geared bikes on a dumb cinder track while a bunch of drunken idiots watch," Amy said.
"You were never invited on a team." Marley said with a laugh.
"No, I was invited," Amy said.
"Oh, you were kicked off, that's it!"
"No, I quit... I was the only one who took it seriously, all they wanted to do was hang out and drink, it was a waste of time and it still is," Amy huffed. Marley poured a bowl of cereal and sat down on the couch. Amy picked her book up and pushed her thick glasses up her nose, then sat up higher on the couch, "You want to do it don't you?"
"Do what?" Marley asked.
"Race the Little 500."
"You know I can't do that," Marley said unable to disguise the bitterness from her voice.
"Why?" Amy asked.
"You know why, don't be stupid," Marley said.
"You know NCAA rules stipulate that..." Amy was cut off.
"I don't give a shit what the rules say OK, I'm not racing, what do you think it will be like for me when they all find out that chick they're racing against has a dick, or maybe you forgot how well it worked out the first time?" Marley asked.
"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to upset you," Amy said.
"No, its fine, who said I want to start racing again anyway, and like you said, it's a stupid event. Now I've got something new for us to watch, "Midnight Occult Civil Servants," Amy said flicking on the TV.
"Oh Lord spare me," Amy said, but once the show as she put down her book and pushed the glasses up her nose again.

Marley and her friends had staked out a regular spot in the student center and met there like clockwork every Thursday between classes. It was a secluded corner on the third floor with comfy couches near a piano that would often be played by students. "So can I talk you guys into coming to ride with me tonight," Marley asked, speaking slightly loud over the music student playing piano.

"Let me check my social calendar, nope," Tink replied and took a drink from her big plastic disposable coffee. Marley chuckled, but wished her friend would change her mind. Tink, was big, about 6 feet tall and overweight, she claimed to like being overweight because she felt she was more passable with her "baby fat." The truth was that Marley found her quite pretty, her long dark brown hair was always smooth and gleaming, her makeup just right, and her seemingly never ending supply of cute dresses. Marley met her Freshman year at the LGBT center and they quickly became best friends.

"I'll go, if you loan me a bike." said Jordan. Jordan was new to their group, a Freshman and feeling very out of place and alone. She was the definition of androgyny. She fit exactly down the center, seemingly in all aspects, not exactly short, but not tall either, her skin was not quite white, but not quite black, her hair not short, not long, her button up shirt and pants were those of a man. A couple weeks ago she saw Tink and Marley talking and asked if she could sit with them. She asked to be referred to as a she, but both Marley and Tink believed that she was harboring a mistrust of her biological gender.

"Really that's awesome," Marley replied.

"Well have fun girls, I'm off to see the wizard," Tink said as she lifted herself off the couch.

"What does that mean?" Jordan asked.

"I'm going to the bathroom, you know to whiz, then I've got a class, see you," Tink said as she adjusted her big purple cateye framed glasses and projected her bright smile.

"I'm worried about her," Marley said once Tink was gone.

"Why she seems fine," Jordan asked.

"She's put on 15 pounds at least since last year, which is fine, but I know her, she's a stress eater, she's like really good at acting happy. Anyway I'm glad you're going, I'll get you set up on a loaner bike if you can come by the shop a bit before the ride" Marley said.

"Yeah, sounds great, but I don’t know if I’ll be any good, I haven’t rode a bike in a long time,” Jordan said.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, it’s always a no drop ride,” Marley said.

“No drop ride?”

“Yeah like if you can’t keep up that’s called being dropped, so on this ride no one gets left behind,” Marley explained and Jordan nodded in understanding.

“So why don’t you and Tink don’t go to the LGBT center anymore?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know, I’m busy with school, working and riding, and it’s really not my thing I guess,” Marley answered.

“But you’re still...” Jordan stuttered.

“Transgender?” Marley asked and Jordan nodded in embarrassment. Marley chuckled, a couple years ago that question and answer would have left her so insecure, but now she looked down at herself. She was wearing pink and purple girls trainers, jean shorts that revealed her long smooth legs, and a loose fitting casual shirt. She only wore a tiny bit of makeup, a little mascara, a little foundation, a dash of eye shadow, her long hair was pulled up in a high pony tail. Most importantly two years on HRT had changed her skin and caused her to grow some small but clear breasts. She had no doubt who she was now. “Would you mistake me for a boy?” Marley asked with a laugh.

“No of course not,” Jordan said.

“It’s very political, the people there… They are always aggrieved, always so pissed off, it’s like just go live your life, you know. That's why I stopped going last year,” Marley explained. Jordan looked off into space. “Hey you know, it’s not all like that, there are lots of good people and they really listen if you want to talk and you know you can always talk to me if you want.”

“Thanks Mar,” Jordan said and checked her digital watch, “Well time for class, I’ll see you tonight.”

***

"You are so going," Stacey said as Brita rolled over in bed and pulled the pillow over her face.

"Get up! I bought you that bike and you're going to ride it."

"Can't you get someone else to go?" Brita asked. Stacey grabbed Brita under the elbows and lifted her up off the bed. "Jesus, how did you get so strong?" Brita yelled.

"Cross fit, now come on I need you. When the others see how much fun we're having we'll have no problem getting them fired up for the team," Stacey said.

"Yeah, woo hoo, we're having so much fun. What do I even wear? I don't have any bike clothes," Brita said looking around the messy bedroom they shared at the Pi Beta Phi house. It was obvious neither girl was a neat freak.

"I don't have any bike clothes either, just put on some workout clothes," Stacey said.
Brita huffed and began digging through some stacks of clothes and found some capri tights, sports bra and a workout top and stomped to the bathroom. Through the half closed door she said, "Why are we going on this ride, we don't know what we're doing, anyway that bike shop girl kind of freaked me out."

"What do you mean freaked you out?"

"I don't know, something was off, plus she dressed like a weirdo." Brita said.

"You should hear yourself, you sound so stuck up, but you're right, we don't know what we're doing, that’s why we need to learn, hence we go to the ride and learn from Marley," Stacey explained.

"FIne," Brita said as she stepped through the door and pulled her hair into a ponytail, "lets go make fools of ourselves."

Stacey and Brita rolled into the parking lot of Campus Cycles a few minutes early and immediately felt like they were on another planet. There were three distinct groups gathered in the parking lot, A tight group of athletic riders in skintight lycra stood around with sleek high tech bicycles that looked more like something from the future. A second group of riders mostly on similar bikes but with less uniformity in clothing style and body shape formed a second group, and a third group appeared to be composed of more women in far more casual clothing and bikes more like hers.

There was an awkward moment when everyone on the parking lot seemed to turn towards Stacey and Brita at once and stare. “Lets get out of here,” Brita said.

“Chill,” Stacey replied as she scanned the crowd for Marley. “I don’t see her anywhere,” A tall guy rolled over from the skintight group and smiled taking off his sunglasses to reveal bright blue eyes., “Hey, I’m Ben, are you guys here for the ride?” He said in a deep voice.

Brita reached over and pinched Stacey, and she seemed unable to form words, “Yeah Marley invited us, I’m Stacey and this is Brita.”

“Cool, well she’s in the shop and will be out in just a second, do you guys need helmets?” Ben asked.

“Ummm,” Brita said, seemingly unable to remember what a helmet was.

“We don’t have helmets,” Stacey replied.

“Yeah, gotta have a helmet to do this ride, but we’ve got loaners, Marley will set you up, just head over to the shop.” Ben said. Stacey had to pull Brita away, thanked Ben and headed towards the door.

“I think I’m going to love cycling,” Brita said as she turned around for one last look at Ben’s chiseled backside. “That is so hot,” she said and licked her lips.

“Would you calm down,” Stacey said. As they approached the shop door Marley and Jordan came out pushing a bike.

“Hey you made it awesome,” Marley said. “This is my friend Jordan, she’s going to ride with us tonight,” Stacey felt a bit of relief in knowing Jordan was a girl, as she wasn’t quite able to place her gender. Jordan stuck out her hand for a handshake.

“Why don’t these bikes have kickstands?” Brita asked.

“That’s a good question,” Marley said with a laugh and showed them to lean their bikes along the wall of the shop. She took Brita and Stacey in to loan them helmets but made a funny face. “Well, we have a slight problem here,” she said and lifted two helmets out of a box. One was a standard white with blue accents, while the other was a girls helmet with several variations on neon pink and purple and huge hearts all over.

“Oh no,” Brita said.

“I’m sorry these are the only two we have left,” Marley said.

Stacey reached out and took the adult helmet and stuck it on her head, “Sorry but this is one of the few times having a big head has been an advantage, it’s a perfect fit,” she said.

Brita grabbed the kid’s helmet and stuck it on her head, “Whatever it’s fine, it's cute, I like it,” she said as she stomped out.

Ben rolled over to Marley’s group back in the parking lot, “Big group tonight,” he said.

“Yeah, little 500 brings them out,” Marley said.

“Well I’ll see you afterward,” Ben said and rolled back over to his group. There was a sudden storm of clicking sounds as the riders all locked their shoes into their pedals and began rolling out.

“Are you guys like dating?” Brita asked Marley.

Marley raised her eyebrow and couldn’t help but raise a smile, “Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s flipping hot,” Brita said.

Marley laughed and said, “No, he works at the shop too, we’re just friends.”

“Cool,” Brita said.

Are you done embarrassing us now?” Stacey asked then turned to Marley, “So I take it that’s the fast group.”

“Yeah, thats the A group they will do 35, we’re the B group and we’ll do 25, and over there is Mary and the C group they’ll do 15,” Marley explained.

“25 miles? Tonight?” Brita asked.

“Yeah, it’s really not that far, but you’re welcome to go ride with the C group,” Marley said.

Brita looked over and studied the group, it was mostly older women and men, many of them looking a bit pudgy in tight fitting spandex and didn’t say anything. Marley clicked into her pedals, with the same style of shoes as the guys had in the A group. Stacey looked over Marely’s bike, it was spotless, sleek and aerodynamic. The paint was gloss black with highlights in feminine colors, and the word Specialized was emblazoned across the downtube in a beautiful rainbow gradient. “Wow that’s a really nice bike, do you race?” Stacey said.

“Thanks,” Marley said as she began to lead out the B group. “And no I don’t race,” she said.

Out on the road Marley stayed in the front of the group leading them through the hustle and bustle of traffic and then onto quiet city streets where she drifted back to Jordan, Stacey and Brita. “So if you want to take a break, just stop, the C group will be by and stay with you. In about ten miles you’ll need to decide if you want to do the longer ride or take the shorter one with the Cs,” Marley explained. For the next 5 minutes Marley gave the girls a crash course in group riding, covering drafting, car back warnings, road safety, and the basic tactics. Stacey noticed they were no longer in town as the group turned a corner onto a smooth country road. There was a change in the group, the pace began to quicken. Stacey felt her heart rate begin to rise as the group stretched out into a line.

A smile found its way to Stacey’s face, the feeling of blood pumping, wind in her hair, and the ground rushing by reminded her of cross country running in high school. Minutes ticked by and Stacey found the smile growing. She looked behind her to see a frown on Brita’s face. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah peachy,” she said between breaths. Ahead of her Marley’s friend Jordan was beginning to struggle to hang on and a gap was growing between her and the other riders. Marley drifted back from the front of the group.

“If you guys want I’ll hang back with you until the C’s get here.” she explained.

Brita stopped pedaling, “Yes please,” she said. Jordan slowed her pace as well and the main group kept getting farther away.

“I can keep going,” Stacey said.

“I’ll stay back with her if you guys want to keep going,” Jordan said.

“Are you sure?” Marley asked.

“Yeah we’re big girls, we’ll be fine,” Brita said.

“OK the C group rides a lot slower and they won’t leave you behind,” Marley said and gave Stacey a good look of appraisal. She was breathing deeply but appeared more athletic and toned then Brita or Jordan. She winked at her, “You ready to catch up?”

“Yeah lets go,” Stacey said, and immediately felt cheesy for her enthusiasm. She waved bye to her friend and tucked in behind Marley who very slowly and steadily increased her pace until they were beginning to catch back up. “How fast are we going?” Stacey shouted into the wind.

“21,” Marley yelled back. It wasn’t long before they were back with the B group. Stacey noticed that Marley still didn’t seem to be breathing hard, but she was taking deep breaths and feeling a not altogether unpleasant burning in her legs. Marley went back to the front of the group and worked her way in with the guys breaking the wind. A few miles later she drifted back to Stacey, “OK, point of no return, still feel like doing 25?”

“Yeah I feel good,” Stacey said.

“Awesome, this road has a few hills and segments, you’re going to see the group come apart but we’ll regroup in a few miles, just stay on this road.” Marley said. They turned onto a smaller road and soon were climbing a significant hill. Just as Marley said some riders surged forward and others began to drift back. Stacey began passing people, and noticed Marley was on the front setting the pace. At the crest of the hill her lungs and legs were burning, but she couldn’t believe she was still with the group, at least what was left of the group, it was now just Marley, herself and two other riders. Marley turned around and looked surprised to see Stacey still with them, she gave her a thumbs up. The downhill rush was incredible, then they turned a corner and another huge hill loomed before her.

This time Stacey found herself in the easiest gear and still struggling, one by one the riders she all passed went around her, giving encouragement and praise for how strong she was on her first ride. It was a huge blow when she saw what she thought was the top, wasn’t really the top, but just the halfway point. “Crap,” she said as the last rider she could see disappeared over the top.

Marley stood alone, leaning against her bike and watched Stacey struggle over the crest of the hill and roll to a stop a few feet from her. The exhausted girl slumped over the bars to catch her breath. “Sorry this was way too hard of a ride for someone who hasn’t rode before,” Marley said.

“Now you tell me!” Stacey said looking up, then laughed and said “Thanks for waiting on me.”

“No problem, a few others wanted to wait but I shooed them along,” Marley said. The girls began to ride and soon were coasting down out of the hills and into some more forgiving terrain. “Trust me you’re doing great for your first ride, all of us have been doing this for years.”

“So how did you get into riding,” Stacey asked.

“Well, my Mom was a bike racer when she was in college, we rode bikes as kids, she took me to my first race when I was 13,” Marley explained.

“I thought you said you didn’t race?” Stacey asked.

“I don’t anymore,” Marley said with a slight edge to her voice.

“Why’d you stop,” Stacey asked.

Marley felt her breath shorten and not from the sedate pace they were riding, she thought about what happened. She could still remember the way people looked at her, the stinging hatred in their eyes. Not only was she a freak, but a cheat who had stolen from “real” girls. A big part of her just wanted to be honest and say, I’m transgender and was hated for riding with the girls. Marley forced a smile on her face and looked at Stacey, “I just got tired of the stress of competition. So what’s it like being in a Sorority?”

“Well, I’ve only been there a month now, but it’s good, lots of new friends, lots of opportunities, the hazing wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Stacey laughed

“Hazing, that’s for real?” Marley asked.

“Yeah, I mean, some of the houses are kind of intense, like insane stuff, but Pi Beta Phi is really pretty tame,” Stacey said.

“Well what happened?” Marley asked.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” Stacey said.

“I’m trying to live vicariously through you, my college experience revolves around going to classes, riding my bike, and working at the shop,” Marley said.

“It was last year, and I was scared because I’d heard horror stories about Rush week. First we were all assigned a ‘Mom’ and mine was Brita. So for a week we had to call her mommy, which was like no big deal you know. They all treated all the pledges like little kids, we had to ask permission for everything, and I mean everything, but in the process they taught us everything we needed to know,” Stacey explained.

“Well that doesn’t sound so bad,” Marley explained.

“I’m leaving out the real embarrassing stuff,” Stacey said with a laugh.

“You can’t leave out the good stuff!,” Marley said.

“Well they took the whole mommy and daughter thing kind of far, we had to wear a pacifier holder with our letters on it, at all times that week, and then there were the spankings and diapers,” Stacey said.

“The what!” Marley said.

“Well a big part of the week was learning the culture and history of the Sorority, so we were given lots of tests, if you didn’t pass you’d get spanked,” Stacey said.

“Umm, and diapers?” Marley asked with a giggle.

“Yeah, I guess we sound pretty immature,” Stacey said. In my defense they were those cute pull-ups for bedwetters, so you know.

The thought of Stacey in such a garment getting spanked brought butterflies to Marley’s stomach, but she forced the thoughts out of her head and said “Well it’s not for me.”

“I know it sounds stupid, but it really helps bring us all together, now Brita is my best friend,” Stacey said.

“That’s cool,” Marley said.

“Now it’s your turn, tell me an embarrassing story,” Stacey said.

Marley felt a lump in her throat as she thought of all the ways her life had changed and how many emberassements she’d suffered. “No thanks,” she said.

“Come on, it’s only fair,” Stacey said.

“I don’t really have an embarrassing story,” Marley said.

“Every girl has an embarrassing story,” Stacey said.

“OK so I was doing this ride once and there was a rest stop with tons of people. I rolled into the rest stop and couldn’t get my feet out of the pedals and fell over,” Marley said.

“Ouch, that sounds painful,” Stacey said.

“It really just hurt my pride,” Marley said.

The girls rode together chatting and the miles ticked away, soon they were back in the parking lot of Campus Cycles. A few riders were hanging around talking but most everyone was gone including Jordan. Brita was talking to Ben and waved when they rolled in. “Can you guys believe that Ben rode 35 miles tonight,” she said.

Ben just smiled, and Marley laughed, “He’s pretty amazing,” she said.

“Jordan had to go, she left her bike up against the wall over there,” Brita said. Stacey helped Marley gather up the loaner bikes and helmets and return them in the shop.

“Thanks for waiting for me, I really enjoyed riding with you,” Stacey said.

“Oh.. great thanks, we ride every Thursday night,” Marley said. Stacey approached her and hugged her, Marley immediately tensed her back, and left her arms stretched out in front her. “Oh, OK,” she awkwardly said.

Stacey laughed, “Sorry, I’m a hugger, thanks again.”

Stacey turned to leave and Marley felt a word forcing itself up from her throat, “Wait,” she said a bit too forcefully.

“Would you like to get some coffee, we could talk about training for the Little 5,” Marley said.

“Oh, that would be awesome, but I promised Brita I’d help her with some school stuff tonight,” Stacey said.

“Oh, yeah cool,” Marley said.

“How about tomorrow night, say 6 or something. Let me get your number,” Marley struggled for a few seconds sputtering before she could remember her number, and Stacey laughed again. “Bye,” she said and left. Marley didn’t move for several seconds then finally took a deep breath.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked herself.

“So did you get his number?” Stacey asked Brita as they rode home.

“Whose number?” Brita said with a smile.

“Don’t be coy with me bitch, the hunky bike guy you were drooling all over when I pulled up,” Stacey said.

“Oh Ben, why yes, yes I did,” Brita said. The two girls fist bumped and giggled. “By the way, thanks for leaving me with that weirdo.”

“Weirdo?,” Stacey asked.

“Jordan, she was so awkward, but I did find out something interesting, I was right about Marley, I knew something wasn’t quite right about her.” Brita said.

“Right about what?” Stacey asked.

“I asked Jordan how her and Marley were friends, and guess what, they met at the LGBT center, they’re lezzies.” Brita explained.

“Oh, wow, I’m going out with her tomorrow night,” Stacey said. Brita nearly fell off her bike laughing.

Chapter 2

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Jim Patton laced up his sneakers and stepped out onto the porch, breathing in the crisp dawn air. For the first time in years, his knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He felt… light.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders, and took off down the sidewalk at a pace that would’ve left the old Jim wheezing after half a block. Now, he barely broke a sweat.
Martha Whitmore, their nosy neighbor, nearly dropped her watering can as he jogged past.

“Jim? Is that you?” she called, squinting through her bifocals.

Jim slowed just enough to flash her a grin. “Mornin’, Martha! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She gaped. He hadn’t called it a beautiful day since… well, ever.

Inside the Patton house, Linda hummed softly as she knitted. The needles clicked in rhythm, the yarn, soft pastel blue, coiling into something small, something for a child. She wasn’t sure why she’d picked that color. It just felt… right.

She’d spent the last week deep-cleaning the house, rearranging furniture, even buying new throw pillows. Jim had joked that she was nesting, and she’d laughed—but then she’d caught herself standing in the baby aisle at Target, staring at stuffed animals for no reason.

A knock at the door startled her. “Linda? You in there?” Martha’s voice carried through the screen.

Linda set down her knitting. “Come on in, Martha!”

Martha pushed inside, her sharp eyes scanning the living room—the freshly vacuumed carpet, the organized shelves, the half-finished tiny sweater on the coffee table.
“You’ve been busy,” Martha said, raising an eyebrow. Their house hadn’t changed in years.

Linda smiled. “Just feeling inspired.”

Martha’s gaze lingered on the knitting. “That’s awfully small for Jim.”

Linda’s fingers stilled. “Oh, it’s just… practice. I’ll donate it or give it to the Henderson’s for their little boy,”

Martha wasn’t buying it. She set the sweater down and crossed her arms. “Linda Patton, I’ve known you for years. You haven’t knitted since… well I’ve never seen you knit. And Jim? Jim is out there running like he’s training for a marathon. What in the world is going on with you two?”

Linda hesitated. She hadn’t even realized how strange it must look, Jim, who used to groan getting out of his recliner, now bounding around like a man half his age. And her, suddenly obsessed with tidiness, with soft things, with,
No. That’s ridiculous

She forced a laugh. “We’ve just been… feeling good, I guess. Maybe it’s the weather.”
Martha’s lips pursed. “The weather doesn’t un-stiffen joints or make women suddenly reorganize the house.”

Linda’s cheeks warmed. “Well, whatever it is, we’re not complaining.”
Martha’s eyes narrowed. “You taking some kind of miracle drug?”

Linda stiffened. “Of course not!”

“Vitamins? Experimental treatment?”

"Martha, we're just feeling refreshed," Linda said, forcing a smile as she carefully folded the tiny sweater. The yarn between her fingers felt instinctively comforting, like she'd done this a thousand times before. "Jim started walking more, I've been gardening, it's amazing what a little movement can do."

Martha's penciled eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. She leaned in, lowering her voice like they were sharing secrets at church. "Linda Patton, a week ago Jim struggled to walk to the park, now he’s out jogging.” Her eyes flicked to Linda's smooth hands. "And since when do your arthritis knobs not look like walnuts?"

Linda instinctively tucked her hands under the knitting basket. The joints had been painless for days now. "Maybe we caught a second wind," she said lightly. Too lightly.

"Hmph." Martha's gaze landed on the end table where a parenting magazine lay half-hidden under a crossword book. Linda didn't remember buying it. Had it come in the mail? The cover showed a beaming mother cradling an infant, the headline screaming "Your Best Nursing Bras!"

A flush crept up Linda's neck as Martha's fingernails, frosted pink and filed sharp, tapped the coffee table. "You know," Martha said slowly, "the Wilsons down the street got one of those illegal youth hormone cocktails from Cuba. Woke up in the hospital missing a kidney."

"For heaven's sake!" Linda's laugh came out shriller than intended. "We're not,"
The teakettle whistled from the kitchen, saving her. Linda practically leapt up, knocking her knitting to the floor. The ball of blue yarn unraveled across the carpet like a retreating tide.

Martha stooped to help gather it, her rhinestone glasses glinting. "This looks just like the layette set my niece knitted for her baby shower," she murmured. When Linda didn't respond, Martha added, "Funny how life works. All those years teaching other people's children... never got to have your own, did you?"

Linda’s eye’s narrowed at her friend's biting comment, “No… and by the way how is your daughter doing, she still on the other side of the country in Seattle?” Linda asked.

Linda's fingers paused on the knitting needles as Martha leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Linda Patton, tell me the truth now." Her knobby fingers gripped the armrest. "Have you found some... fountain of youth out there?

The laugh that bubbled up from Linda's chest felt lighter than it had in years. "Oh Martha, if I'd found the secret to youth, I'd have bottled it and sold it at the church bazaar by now." She set aside the tiny blue sleeve she'd been working on. "We're just feeling good, is all. Sleeping better, eating right,"

The front door burst open before she could finish. Jim stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed pink, his white hair damp with sweat but his eyes bright. In his hand, a perfect yellow daffodil trembled with his excited breathing. "Thought you might like this, Lin," he said, presenting it with a boyish flourish that made Linda's heart skip.

Martha's eyes narrowed at the flower. "That's from my garden bed by the mailbox, Jim Patton!"
Jim blinked, then grinned unrepentantly. "Well Martha, beauty ought to be shared, don't you think?" He winked as he handed it to Linda, his fingers surprisingly steady for a man who'd needed both hands to lift his coffee mug just weeks ago. Linda brought the bloom to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent. When she looked up, Martha was studying them both with new intensity.

"You're different," Martha murmured, more to herself than to them. "Not just healthier. You move like... like..."

"Like we've got springs in our shoes?" Jim laughed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if to demonstrate. "Tell you what, Martha, come by tomorrow morning. I'll show you the stretch routine I've been doing. Might put some pep in your step too." Martha opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her gaze drifted from Jim's energetic stance to Linda's radiant complexion, then to the half-knitted baby garment on the coffee table.

She was well into to dealing with the indignities of old age, they were getting younger, whatever they were doing she had to find out. "Well," she said at last, pushing herself up from the chair with considerably more effort than either Patton required these days, "I suppose some people just age better than others." The words held no malice, only wonder. "You two enjoy your... whatever this is. Oh and stay out of my daffodils Jim!” Martha said as she shut the door behind her.

“She’s definitely on to something, do you think she’ll mind her own business?” Jim asked with a chuckle.

Linda twirled the daffodil between her fingers, watching the petals catch the light. "Not for a second," she said, and found she didn't much care. Jim mopped his forehead with his sleeve. Then his smile faltered. "Lin... how many miles do you think I just ran?"

Linda set the flower carefully on the coffee table next to her knitting. "However many it was, you weren't doing it three weeks ago." She reached for his hand, turning it over in hers. The age spots that had dotted his knuckles for a decade were fading. "Jim, what's happening to us?"

Jim flexed his fingers, watching the smooth movement of tendons beneath unexpectedly firm skin. "Remember the day the guy we helped in the park bought us lunch.”

"Clark," Linda nodded automatically, then blinked. She hadn't thought about him since that day, yet his name came to her lips without hesitation.
"Yeah, well..." Jim rubbed the back of his neck where a very bad mosquito bite had nearly driven him crazy last week. "Then we were both bit by those giant mosquitoes, the next day, my neck was all swollen up and sore, but my back didn’t hurt.”

Linda's knitting needles clattered to the floor as the realization hit. Her gaze dropped to the tiny blue sweater sleeve. "Yeah, it was a really bad bite, but the next morning my arthritis was better than it had been in years."

Jim cleared his throat. "You don't think... I mean, it's not possible that we were infected with something?"

"I don't know what's possible anymore. But I know I woke up yesterday wanting oatmeal with brown sugar for the first time since I was 30."

Jim's laugh started deep in his chest, richer than it had been in years. "I ate peanut butter straight from the jar last night. Like a damn college kid."

Their eyes met, and in that moment, an unspoken agreement passed between them. Whatever was happening, whether miracle or madness, they wouldn't question it. Not yet.

Later that night the Pattons sat on the couch, Linda thumbed through her parenting magazine, trying to remember when she bought it. Jim flicked through TV channels, and settled on old cartoons that he’d watched as a child, but they seemed so new and he found himself engaged. During a commercial he glanced over and watched Linda reading, the article was top 5 things to do when preparing for a new baby. Then his eyes caught an ad for Pampers. He felt himself growing aroused and started staring at Linda’s breasts, they seemed far more supple and... Without thinking he reached over and lifted her nightgown.

“Jim, what are…” Linda started but grew silent when Jim latched on to her nipple and began sucking, something he had enjoyed doing back in their youth when sex was far more frequent. She dropped the magazine and instinctively began rubbing his head, and in a few minutes they made their way to the bedroom for something they hadn’t enjoyed in a very long time.

Chapter 3

Jim woke slowly, wrapped in a warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. His limbs were heavy with sleep, his mind still floating in that soft, dreamy place where nothing hurt and nothing worried him. He hadn’t woken up to pee at 3 AM. He hadn’t woken up at all.

Then he shifted, and froze. The mattress beneath him was cold. His stomach dropped.
No. Not again.

He lay perfectly still, as if maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t move, it wouldn’t be real. But the dampness clinging to his thighs was undeniable. The faint, sour tang in the air was unmistakable. He’d done it again. Two nights in a row.

Linda had been awake for ten minutes, her nightgown cold and damp, just like yesterday morning. She felt Jim stiffen beside her, heard the sharp hitch in his breathing. She’d pretended to sleep through his frantic, whispered “Oh no, no, no” as he realized.

Last night, he’d blamed a spilled glass of water. This morning, she wasn’t giving him the chance to lie. She rolled over and flicked on the lamp. Jim flinched like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His pajama pants were dark with moisture, the sheets beneath him soaked. His face, younger now, smoother than it had been in a decade, was flushed with shame. They stared at each other in the yellow lamplight.
Finally, Linda reached out and touched his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said softly.

Jim’s throat worked. “Lin, I…”

“You wet the bed honey, don’t lie,” Linda said.

“Yeah I guess, I don’t remember, I was asleep, it wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know, lets just get cleaned up again, its no big deal.” Linda said. They stripped off their wet clothes and bedding, then Jim got towels to dry the mattress where there was a ring from last night's accident.

The washing machine churned in the background as Jim sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a robe, staring at his coffee struggling with shame. Jim Patton, 71 years old, or was he? Had just wet the bed like he did when he was 6 years old. He remembered that shameful time in his life and how his Dad accused him of being too lazy to get out of bed.

But Linda… Linda wasn’t upset. That was the strangest part. In fact she seemed to be amused, maybe even happy about it. She set a plate of pancakes in front of him, the syrup pooling golden in the center. “Eat,” she said. Jim picked up his fork, his hands steady. No tremors. No arthritis. Just smooth, easy movement. He took a bite. The sweetness burst on his tongue, rich and comforting. He hadn’t craved pancakes like this since he was a boy.

Across the table, Linda watched him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. “OK, here’s what we are going to do, we’ll buy a mattress protector, and you’re going to go to the doctor and get checked out. Make sure you don’t have a bladder infection or something,” Linda said.

“I don’t feel like I have anything wrong, and what about the changes..” Jim asked.

“I don’t know but we need to be smart about this, your health is the most important thing to me sweetie. The doctor can rule out there is nothing wrong, maybe it’s just a phase, but I’m putting a towel between us tonight, she said. THey both chuckled.

Jim got an appointment to see the doctor the very next day, and for the third morning in a row woke up wet. It wasn’t as bad this morning since Linda had placed a heavy towel under him. Doctor Patel entered the examination room and seemed surprised when he looked at his patient. “Wow Jim, you look younger, what's your secret?”

Jim forced a chuckle. “Retirement and a good moisturizer?”

The doctor’s laughter faded as he scanned Jim’s chart. “Says here you’re here for nocturnal enuresis.” His stethoscope hovered over Jim’s chest. “Three nights running?”
“Yeah, but…” Jim swallowed as the cold metal touched his skin. “

“Hey bud, don’t be ashamed, you wouldn’t believe how many people have that issue, incontinence is way more common than you’d think. 20 million americans” Dr. Patel said. Jim didn’t feel relieved.

Dr. Patel stared at the urine analysis results, then at Jim’s blood pressure reading (117/78), then back at the chart. “Your PSA levels are better than mine. Kidneys function like a twenty-year-old.” He flipped a page. “You say you stopped drinking?”

Jim’s fingers drummed on his knees, smooth knees, no more creaking. “Not a drop.”

“And you’re still taking the lisinopril?”

“Every morning.” Until last week, Jim didn’t add, when he’d inexplicably started forgetting.

The doctor scribbled notes, his pen hovering over the diagnosis line. “Jim… medically speaking, you’re in better shape than you were at fifty. There’s no physiological reason for the bedwetting.”

Jim’s pulse throbbed in his suddenly dry throat. “So what’s next?”

Dr. Patel wrote on a notepad and tore off the page. “Go to Wal-Mart and buy some of these. If it persists past a month, we’ll do a sleep study.” He hesitated. “Off the record my grandfather lived to ninety-six. Grandma said he wet the bed like a baby for years. Getting old sucks, my friend.”

Jim stared at the script for Depend overnight protection. “Thanks doc,” he said.

***

Jim was breathing heavily as he and Linda pushed a cart towards the incontinence aisle. "You can go back to the car," Linda said with a smile.

"No, this is no big deal," Jim said though his quicker pulse would indicate otherwise. Jim's palms were slick against the shopping cart handle as they turned down the dreaded aisle. Neon blue packaging screamed "OVERNIGHT PROTECTION!" beside cheerful young men and women on packs of disposable briefs. His stomach clenched. There was someone down the aisle, an older woman. She placed a pack of Depends for women in her cart and turned. Jim and Linda froze, it was their neighbor Martha.

“Oh, umm, Hi Linda, Jim,” she said. There was a large pack of Depends already in the cart and a container of baby powder.

“So umm, shopping?” Jim asked.

“Yeah, I pick up supplies for Mildred you know down the block, she doesn’t drive now,” Martha replied.

“Oh, I see,” Linda said with a smile.

“And what are you two doing here?” Martha asked.

Linda didn’t hesitate, “Jim’s having accidents, he needs bladder protection,” she said.

“What, no!,” Jim said in horror.

“There’s no use trying to hide it honey, you’re not as young as you used to be,” Linda said and winked at him.

Jim's face burned hotter than the Florida pavement in July. He opened his mouth, closed it, then saw the mischievous glint in Linda's eye. Two could play this game.

"Well since we're airing grievances," Jim said, slinging an arm around Linda's shoulders, "my lovely wife here keeps buying prune juice and fiber supplements like we're running a retirement home cafeteria." He nodded to Martha's cart. "Though I see you're shopping for Mildred's... special needs too."

Martha's grip tightened on her cart handle. The baby powder suddenly looked conspicuously placed next to the Depends. "Mildred has very sensitive skin," she sniffed.

"Of course she does," Linda said sweetly. "You're such a good neighbor."
An elderly man turned into the aisle, paused at the sight of the three of them, then quickly reversed his cart with surprising speed.

Jim grabbed a package of men's briefs with exaggerated consideration. "Now Linda, do you think I need the overnight protection or just the light days?" He held them up like wine bottles. "This one has a floral scent, might pair nicely with Martha's selection."

Martha's lips pursed. "You're enjoying this."

"You're right," Jim sighed dramatically. "I should be embarrassed. But between Linda's fiber obsession and your... Mildred supplies, I figure we're all in the same leaky boat."
Linda squeezed his hand in approval as Martha's stern expression cracked into a reluctant smile.

"Fine," Martha grumbled, tossing a container of adult sized baby wipes in her cart with defiant flair. "But if either of you breathe a word about this at bridge club, I'll tell everyone about Jim's little waterworks problem."

"Deal," Linda laughed.

As they parted ways, Jim called after Martha: "Tell Mildred I hope her sensitive skin improves!"

Martha flipped him off without turning around, the Depends in her cart bouncing as she rounded the corner.

“Why did you tell her?” Jim asked as he dropped a package of the incontinence briefs in the cart.

“She’s very nosy, she’d find out anyway, plus she’s very curious about our recent changes, she thinks we have a fountain of youth somewhere. So I thought if she knew you were having accidents then she might not worry about it.

“Oh, clever I guess,” Jim replied.

Later that night Jim found that there seemed to be no end to the depths of humiliation he was enduring. “OK sweetie, it’s bedtime, so lets get you in your night time pants,” Linda said. Luckily her parenting magazine had an article about dealing with older bedwetters so she was ready.

Jim stood frozen in the bathroom doorway, clutching his pajama top like a shield. "Lin, I can put them on myself."

Linda fluffed the freshly protected mattress, her tone breezy but firm, the same voice she'd used decades ago with her third graders. "Of course you can, sweetheart. But we need to make sure they're fitted properly or they'll leak." She patted the bed. "Come here."

The parenting magazine lay open on the nightstand to an article titled "Nighttime Accidents: Keeping Your Child (or Loved One) Comfortable." Jim's eye twitched at the highlighted section: "Make changes part of a calming bedtime routine."

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, but his feet carried him forward anyway. The crinkle of the mattress protector under his knees sounded absurdly loud.

Linda knelt before him with the same focus she'd once given to knitting those tiny sweaters. She slid the undergarment up his legs and pulled it tight into his crotch. "There. Snug but not too tight." She patted his hip. "How's that feel?"

Jim opened his mouth to protest but stopped, "Better than last night," he admitted grudgingly. The protection did feel secure. Less like a medical device and more like... well, he wouldn't finish that thought.

Linda beamed and produced a blue plastic cup from the nightstand. "Here's your water. Just half-full tonight, we don't want too many accidents while we're training."
Jim blinked. "Training?"

"Mmm." Linda smoothed the sheets, avoiding his eyes. "The article says consistency is key for overcoming bedwetting. We'll start with scheduled bathroom trips." She fluffed his pillow. "Now, do you want a story or..."

"Linda."

She froze at his tone, then sighed. "Too much?"
Jim studied her face, the genuine concern in her eyes, the way her hands still hovered near his shoulders like she might tuck him in. A month ago, this would've sparked an argument. Now, he just felt... cared for.

"Just turn out the light," he grumbled, sliding under the covers.

Linda pressed a kiss to his forehead before he could dodge it. "Goodnight, baby."
The nickname hung in the air between them. Neither acknowledged it.

The next morning Jim woke up with a soggy wet pull-up between his legs, but a dry bed. There were a few damp spots on his pajamas but it was worlds better than waking up and stripping the bedding. He quickly got up and carefully waddled to the bathroom. Seeing himself in the mirror with the wet garment felt strange, he had wondered what this would be like for years, and now all the sudden here he was, but it wasn’t really what he wanted, it wasn’t really babyish. He pulled the soggy garment down his legs.

"Let me help." Linda stood in the doorway, bathrobe tied tight, her hair mussed from sleep but eyes alert. She'd clearly been awake waiting.

Jim instinctively turned away. "I've got it."

"I know you do." She stepped closer anyway, and took the wet pull-up from his hands and tied it in a tight ball. “The article said skin needs proper cleaning or you'll get rashes." She wet a washcloth under warm water, testing the temperature on her wrist.
Jim stared at the tile wall as she gently wiped his thighs. The clinical touch should have humiliated him, but the warm cloth soothed him.

"I bet that was better than waking up wet?" Linda murmured, applying powder with feather-light strokes. Her fingers lingered at his hipbone, thinner now, his body shedding the middle-aged spread. "You're doing so well."

The praise settled in Jim's chest like sunlight. He caught her wrist. "Lin... are you enjoying this?"

“Maybe,” she said and kissed him.