At Diaper Room 1, a floor gate prevented a room full of stinkers from escaping into the other annexes. And while only one or two seemed to possess the motor skills necessary to make a run for it, you can’t take your chances with a loose Diaper. The mess one’s capable of makes a Dust Bunny’s droppings seem downright antiseptic.

“I’m here to deliver a Dirty Diaper,” Papa Underpants called from the barricade.

“Wonderful,” a voice replied. “I’ll be right there.”

Papa Underpants surveyed the room. One Diaper--a scrawny little one with large safety pins holding it together--lay staring up at the ceiling without blinking. Another rooted around in a wet bag. A third admired itself in a mirror, practicing movements it found its doppelgänger mimicking with eerie precision.

But of all the Diapers in the room, one held Papa Underpants’ attention. Sitting just inside the gate, big and full-looking, the Diaper’s blank stare planted a seed of doubt in Papa Underpants. Neither of them blinked. Papa, inwardly drawn, gazed into the deep pools of the Diaper’s waterlogged eyes. The silence between them stretched. The Diaper’s lip quivered. A small tremor that gave way to an avalanche of tears and gasping cries.

Another Diaper began to cry. And then another. The crying ripped through the room like wildfire--WAA! WAA! WAA!--scorching every Diaper in its path. As the firestorm rose to a fever pitch, the space inside Papa Underpants strained protectively against their incessant neediness.

“Okay, okay, I hear you.” A tattered Apron hoisted herself from her rocker, setting a snuffling Diaper on the ground. “I see you have a way with children,” she said.

“I have a way with making them.”

The Apron examined Papa Underpants. “A seamster, eh? You look the type.” Unimpressed, the Apron reached out for Papa Underpants’ Cloth Diaper.

“Oh my, darlin’,” she said. “You’re gettin’ bigger.” She hoisted the Cloth Diaper high up on her hip. “Or maybe I’m just gettin’ older.”

“Please,” Papa Underpants said, “you barely look off the rack.”

The Apron replied with a smirk: “Careful who you talk to like that. You just might end up with another Diaper on your hands.”

Papa looked across the crackling bonfire, down at Little Briefs and Boxer Shorts on the cusp of ignition, and realized how he’d gotten into this mess. The Apron turned to the Diaper who set the room ablaze.

“Thirsty, we talked about this!”

As quickly as it began, the fat Diaper snapped shut, snuffing the room down to glowing embers. When the Apron turned back toward Papa Underpants, he reached out and patted his Cloth Diaper on the head. “Have fun,” he said. “We love you.” And to the Apron: “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear.”

Without another word, Papa Underpants turned his back on the room and made for the exit. Little Briefs and Boxer Shorts followed along as their Papa took a deep breath, letting some of his wrinkles smooth out on the exhalation.

“Papa,” said Little Briefs.

“Yeah?”

“How much time do we have?”

“We’re going to be on time,” he said.

The three pairs of Underpants arrived at Junior Size Elementary just before the bell. When it rang, Boxer Shorts and Little Briefs ran ahead. Papa Underpants called after them. “I love you,” he said. A Trench Coat wrapped itself around its small Puffer and two pairs of Slacks chatted on the walkway. Papa Underpants watched them for a moment and felt the sedate glare of the fat Diaper, those dull, glassy eyes leading him to wonder if perhaps he himself were the one trapped behind the gate.

The activity outside the school died down; conversing parents walked home together. Papa Underpants made his way to the front office to check in.

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