I’m curled in my purple star onesie, diaper snug, paci bobbing while Bluey sings, when the chair wheels out and I hear the crack—my tibia pops through skin like a horror movie.

I dial 911 through tears, praying the strangers won’t see the sippy cup, the coloring books, the baby me scattered across the living-room nest.

The boots that thunder in belong to Casey—tall, calm, paramedic badge flashing—and the second his blue eyes land on my crotch-snaps and pacifier clip, something shifts: professional concern melts into a quiet, possessive warmth I’ve never felt from a man before.

He kneels, murmurs, “I’ve got you, babygirl,” voice pitched low, and I swear the pain dims like morphine already dripped straight into my heart.

On the ride to Memorial he tucks my stuffed cat under the blanket, shields my onesie from gawking neighbors, texts later: You’re not broken—this Little thing is brave.

I text back trembling emojis; he answers with groceries, shower chair, Thai take-out, patience wrapped in Daddy energy.

Wound checks turn into couch cuddles, cartoon marathons, his hand covering mine on the satin edge of my pink blankie while he calls me good girl.

Under Mr. Whiskers watching from the headboard, I taste apple juice on his tongue.

God, I actually get a Daddy in every cloud has a silver lining.

————————

Abigail

The opening theme of Bluey plays for the third time tonight and I'm exactly where I need to be.

My apartment is dim except for the glow of the television. I'm curled up on my oversized bean bag with Mr. Whiskers tucked under one arm and my favorite pink blanket draped over my legs. The pacifier between my lips bobs gently as I watch Bluey and Bingo play their game, and something tight in my chest finally starts to unwind.

This is my space. My safe space. The place where Abigail Goodwin, CPA, doesn't have to exist for a few precious hours.

I shift and the bulk of my diaper crinkles softly beneath my onesie. It's pale purple with little stars on it, worn soft from washing, and the snaps at the crotch press gently against my skin through the padding. The sensation is grounding. Comforting. A physical reminder that right now, in this moment, I don't have to be the competent professional who spent fourteen hours today reconciling a corporate client's absolute disaster of a tax situation.

My phone sits face-down on the coffee table. Fourteen missed calls from work. Twenty-three emails that came in after I left the office. All of them can wait until tomorrow because it's nine at night in mid-April and I have officially clocked out.

Well. I've clocked out in the adult sense. Right now I'm clocked firmly into being small, and my biggest concern is whether I want apple juice or chocolate milk before bed.

On screen, Bandit is being a good daddy, playing along with his daughters' imagination game even though he's clearly exhausted. I watch with something like longing curling in my stomach. Not for a father, I had one of those and he was wonderful before the accident took him and Mom when I was nineteen. No, the longing is for something else entirely. Someone who'd understand this. Who'd see me like this and not run screaming.

I've tried dating. Regular dating. The kind where you put on real clothes and makeup and pretend you're a functional adult who has her together. It always ends the same way. Three dates, maybe four, and then I start feeling the walls close in because I can't be myself. Can't explain that sometimes I need to come home and color in a coloring book for two hours while drinking from a sippy cup. Can't admit that my bedroom has stuffies lining the shelves and a whole drawer full of onesies and pull-ups.

So I stopped trying. It's been two years since my last relationship, and honestly? This is better. Easier. No one to disappoint when they realize I'm fundamentally broken in a way that makes normal relationships impossible.

I let the pacifier fall from my mouth, letting it dangle from the clip attached to my onesie, and reach for my sippy cup. The apple juice is cold and sweet and perfect. I take three long gulps before setting it back on the coffee table, already thinking about what snack I want.

My stomach growls. Goldfish crackers, maybe. Or the fruit snacks shaped like cartoon characters that I definitely did not buy in the kids' section of the grocery store while avoiding eye contact with everyone.

The fruit snacks are on top of my refrigerator. I put them up there this morning in a fit of organization, thinking I'd grab them later when I wanted them.

I unfold myself from the bean bag, my legs a little stiff from being curled up so long. The carpet is soft under my bare feet as I pad into my small kitchen. The light above the stove casts everything in a warm glow, and I can see my reflection in the microwave. Messy bun on top of my head, pacifier dangling against my chest, onesie stretched across my hips.

I look ridiculous. I look perfect. I look like me.

The fruit snacks are just out of reach, even when I stretch on my tiptoes. Of course they are. Because I'm five-foot-three on a good day and apparently past-Abigail thought she was a giant this morning.

My desk chair is right there, the one with wheels that I usually push under my desk in the corner of the living room where I sometimes work from home. I drag it over to the fridge, not thinking much about it beyond getting my snacks and going back to my show.

The chair rolls easily across the laminate floor. Too easily, maybe, but I'm already climbing onto it, one knee on the seat, then the other foot finding purchase. I rise up, steadying myself with one hand on top of the fridge, reaching with the other.

My fingers brush the box of fruit snacks.

The chair moves.

It happens so fast. One second I'm reaching, the next the chair is rolling out from under me and I'm falling. My hip clips the counter on the way down and then there's the coffee table, the corner of it, and my leg is bending in a way that legs should not bend and then there's a sound.

A crack. Sharp and horrible and wet.

I hit the floor and the pain is immediate and blinding and wrong. So completely and utterly wrong that for a moment I can't even process what's happened. My brain is just screaming wrong wrong wrong while my body tries to curl in on itself.

I can't curl. Something is wrong with my leg. Very wrong.

I make a sound. It's high and thin and animal, nothing like my regular voice, and it echoes in my small apartment. My vision swims and I think I might throw up. I force myself to breathe through my nose, in and out, trying to get control while my nervous system does its best to make me pass out.

Don't look. Don't look at your leg. Just breathe.

I look.

My left leg is wrong. The shin is wrong. There's a bump that shouldn't be there and oh god, oh god, there's something white poking through my skin and that's bone. That's my bone. I can see my bone.

The scream that comes out of me is raw and terrified and makes my throat hurt. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. The pain is like nothing I've ever felt before, radiating up from my leg in hot waves that make my teeth chatter.

I need help. I need help right now.

My phone. Where's my phone? Coffee table. I'm on the floor next to the coffee table. I twist, gasping when the movement sends fresh agony through my leg, and grab blindly until my fingers close around my phone.

Nine-one-one. I need to call nine-one-one.

But I'm wearing a onesie. I'm wearing a diaper. There's a pacifier clipped to my chest and Mr. Whiskers is three feet away, staring at me with his button eyes. My living room is full of evidence. The coloring books on the coffee table. The sippy cup. The episode of Bluey still playing on the television, Bandit's voice a cheerful backdrop to my nightmare.

I can't. I can't have strangers come here and see all of this.

Another wave of pain rolls through me and I sob, the sound ugly and desperate. My leg is broken. Badly broken. Compound fracture, some distant part of my brain supplies helpfully, the part that took anatomy in college. The bone is through the skin. This isn't something I can just walk off or wrap in an ace bandage. This is hospital-level bad.

My fingers are slick with sweat as I unlock my phone. The screen is too bright, the numbers swimming in front of my eyes. I tap nine. I tap one. I tap one again.

The ringing seems to last forever.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"I fell." My voice comes out thin and shaky, small in a way that has nothing to do with how I was feeling ten minutes ago. "My leg. I think it's broken. I can see... there's bone. I can see bone."

"Okay, I need you to stay calm for me. What's your address?"

I rattle it off, the numbers and street name coming automatically even though my brain feels like static. The dispatcher's voice is professional and soothing and I cling to it like a lifeline while she asks me questions. Can I move? No. Am I bleeding? I don't think so. Am I alone? Yes.

Yes, I'm alone. I'm always alone. And now I'm alone and broken on my living room floor wearing a diaper and there's a box of fruit snacks somewhere near my head that I'll never be able to look at again without wanting to die.

"Paramedics are on their way. I need you to stay on the line with me, okay? Don't try to move."

As if I could. The pain is making me light-headed now, a dizzy rushing feeling that makes the room tilt. I let my cheek rest against the cool floor and try to focus on breathing. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Don't think about what I'm wearing. Don't think about what they're going to see.

But that's all I can think about.

My little space. My private, safe, sacred space. About to be violated by strangers who will take one look at me and know. They'll know everything. They'll see the onesie and the diaper and the pacifier and they'll know exactly what I am.

Shame burns hot in my chest, competing with the pain for dominance. This is my worst nightmare. This is every anxiety spiral I've ever had made real. I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to wake up and have this be a terrible dream.

But it's not a dream. It's real. My leg is shattered and help is coming and there's nothing I can do to hide what I am.

"Abigail? Are you still with me?" The dispatcher's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Good. The paramedics are close. Just a few more minutes. You're doing great."

I'm not doing great. I'm the opposite of great. I'm broken and exposed and about to be humiliated in front of medical professionals who will probably put it in their group chat later. You'll never guess what we walked into tonight.

I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else. But the pain won't let me drift. It keeps me anchored to this moment, to this reality, to the sound of sirens getting closer.

The television is still going. Bluey's theme song plays again and I almost laugh except it would hurt too much. This episode will be ruined for me forever. This whole night will be ruined forever. This might ruin everything.

The sirens are loud now. Right outside. The dispatcher is saying something about them being here, about how I can hang up now, about how they'll take good care of me.

I end the call and let my phone fall from my hand.

There are voices in the hallway. Heavy footsteps. Professional, efficient sounds of people who do this every day and have seen everything.

They haven't seen this.

I grab the edge of my blanket and try to pull it over myself but it doesn't reach far enough. Doesn't cover the onesie or the obvious bulk of the diaper or any of the dozens of ways this apartment screams what I am.

There's a knock on the door. Firm and authoritative.

"Paramedics!"

My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. This is it. This is the moment where my carefully constructed walls come crashing down and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

Another knock, more insistent.

"Abigail Goodwin? Paramedics. We're coming in."

The door opens.