Mrs Zoge trotted up, Ivy riding shotgun on her hip. “Excuse me, Mr Gibson,” she said. “Would you mind watching Ivy for a minute while I go help Mrs Beouf unload?” She didn’t wait before sliding Ivy off her hip and placing her down next to me. She stayed at Ivy’s (at our)eye level long enough to say, “You be good.”

“Yes Mommy.” And then Zoge was off, climbing onto the bus so she could unbuckle restraints made to look like car seats. Ivy looked at me and then waved as if we hadn’t already seen each other not ten minutes ago. “Hi.”

I gave her a polite nod of recognition and then turned to face my bus. I tried to give Ivy-to give all the Littles at Oakshire Elementary-a modicum of quiet dignity and respect. They were infantilized enough. A simple understanding nod would go a lot farther than a big toothy smile or a cooing voice. That’s what I told myself.

In hindsight, it went deeper than that. I should have taken it as a compliment from Mrs Zoge, really. Babies didn’t watch other babies, and she was super possessive of her “daughter”. I’d just scored a victory over Forrest and had been a hair’s breadth away from humiliating Brollish. But the truth was captured Littles made me uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t they? No one liked looking at a worst case reflection of themselves. Ivy and other Littles like her were reminders that victories didn’t matter so much when I only needed one loss for it to be game over for good.

If Ivy and I had ever been alone behind closed doors, I might want to talk to her. To ask her if she was okay. Ask her when had adulthood been stolen from her. Offer to try and sneak a message to her family, her real family. Let her use the toilet. Let her sit on it for a few minutes, even if she didn’t have to go; just for the novelty. Show her a funny internet meme with cursing in it. Maybe even, in my wildest fantasies, tell her to run.

But we were in public. And Little legs never got far without cover of darkness, a crowd, and a several hour head start. I probably wouldn’t have asked or offered Ivy any of those things if we had the privacy to talk, anyways.

Ivy would have likely refused. Likely tattled. Helping “adopted” Littles escape was against the law. Tantamount to kidnapping. A crime, ironically, punishable by “adoption”. Ivy would have turned me in, I knew. There were Helpers, and then there were Littles who were just so far gone that they completely bought into all of the Amazon’s hype.

Perfect Little Baby Dolls.

That was Ivy all over. She wasn’t worth the risk. A nasty thought burned in the back of my skull. Was I watching her, or was she watching me? I stood up a little straighter as Elmer hopped down the steps and onto the sidewalk with me.

“Come on, Elmer. Good job!” I looked at him. He was still a bit shorter than me. “Do you want a high five, a handshake, or a hug?” Elmer, held out his hand, grinning. I slapped his hand and he gave me a giggle.

Meanwhile, Beouf and Zoge were trotting out of the bus, carrying Littles out in ones and twos. Oakshire Elementary didn’t have school uniforms, and there wasn’t really a dress code for the MDP unit, but I’d noticed certain trends held true over the years.

Boy Littles tended to be dressed in shirts and shorts that did nothing to conceal their diapers, usually with the top still poking out over the waistband. Girls tended to be forced to wear dresses that were so short they barely covered the tops. Onesies and shortalls were fair game for both sexes, especially in the hotter months.

Anything that covered the knee was avoided unless it was cold enough to see your breath. And even then, the Littles were so bundled up with cutesy crap that there would have been almost no chance for them to run away through all the extra layers.

All ten of Mrs Beouf’s charges wore shoes, meaning they were expected to be able to walk at least some of the time. Walk was a generous term. Their legs were forced to bow out to keep their balance thanks to all the plastic and padding stuffed between their thighs. Waddle was a more apt descriptor.

As my class was slowly but surely making their way down the bus steps and getting their high fives, handshakes, and hugs from me, Mrs Beouf or her assistant would set a Little down, guide them hand-over-hand to each other, and force them to clasp onto one another. Then, they’d get a pat on the head and their Amazon caretaker would go back to the bus to get more. It was a kind of nursery school chain gang. Ivy, of course, was their good example and Line Leader.

None of them looked directly at me, or I at them. No cries for help. If nothing else, everyone had accepted our limitations and expected roles. We all knew what this was.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!“

Except, apparently, for the new fish. The side of the school bus opened and a ramp was lowered down. Beouf came down the ramp wheeling a blue umbrella stroller. A kid, he might have been twenty, was strapped in, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a very wet diaper. Sopping wet. Discolored. Close to leaking.

His lack of clothing probably meant that he was a new capture. His “Mommy” or “Daddy” had “adopted” him on impulse and hadn’t taken the time to buy a more expansive and babyish wardrobe.

“LET! ME! GO!” He definitely talked like he was new to this. Poor Little One.