​The Suggestion of the Madwoman

​"The Reformatory?" Jessica gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She looked at Sarah as if she were already wearing the steel belt. "Your mother actually called them?"

​"They were on their way," Sarah said, her voice tight with panic. "That’s why I ran. If they catch me, I’m done. I’ll never be free again. I just need a place to sleep tonight. Just one night."

​Mike stood up from the sofa. The heavy, wet plastic between his legs sagged almost to his knees, weighing him down, but his expression was one of pure self-preservation.

​"No way," Mike said, shaking his head. "Absolutely not."

​"Mike, please!" Sarah stepped forward.

​"Don't come any closer!" Mike waddled backward, putting the coffee table between them. "Do you know what the penalty is for harboring a fugitive from the Department of Behavioral Correction? They don’t just take you. They take everyone in the house."

​He gestured to his own soggy, soiled diaper.

​"I just got my liberation papers, Sarah! I’ve spent the last six hours sitting in my own filth, blissfully happy, without having to pause my video game once. If they catch you here, they strip me. They put me in the Belt. I am not going back to using a toilet like a peasant because you decided to spike your sister."

​"He’s right, Sarah," Jessica said, her voice trembling. "We can’t risk our status. You have to go."

​"Where am I supposed to go?" Sarah cried, looking between the two of them—her so-called friends, who cared more about their padded privileges than her life. "The police are looking for me. The hotels scan IDs. I’m trapped."

​Mike let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. He cracked open another beer, the condensation dripping onto his bare chest.

​"Well, if you're so **** to disappear," Mike sneered, "why don't you go knock on Crazy Betty's door?"

​Sarah wiped a tear from her cheek. "Who?"

​"Betty Louca," Mike said, using the neighborhood nickname. "You know, the old hag who lives in the old bomb shelter on the edge of town? The one who thinks the government puts tracking chips in the absorbent gel? She hasn't been seen in public for five years because she refuses to register her bowel movements with the central grid."

​Jessica rolled her eyes. "Mike, stop it. That’s an urban legend."

​"No, she’s real," Mike insisted, grinning cruelly. "She posts those insane manifestos on the dark web about how diapers are 'mind control devices.' Go ask her for a bunk, Sarah. You two would get along great. You're both terrified of a little plastic."

​Sarah stared at him. Mike was joking. He was mocking her, using a local crazy woman as a punchline to humiliate her further while he stood there, proud of his own stench.

​But Sarah wasn't laughing.

​"Where is it?" Sarah asked coldly.

​Mike’s smile faded. "What?"

​"The shelter. Where is it?"

​"Uh, it's down by the old industrial district, near the scrapyard," Mike muttered, confused by her seriousness. "But Sarah, she's nuts. She probably has landmines in her yard."

​"Better landmines than the Reformatory," Sarah said. It wasn't a joke to her. It was her only hope.