Chapter 4: A New Level
The clinic smelled of antiseptic wipe residue and industrial air freshener, a scent that promised cleanliness and felt like a violation. Mae’s grip on her wheelchair’s joystick was too tight. This had been Tom’s idea. A “comprehensive ergonomic assessment” in a proper clinical setting, to blueprint some customized desk attachments.
“It’s just a formality,” he’d said over the phone, his voice calm. “The rehab center has equipment my toolkit can’t touch. We’ll get precise measurements, pressure maps, the works. In and out in ninety minutes.”
She’d agreed, because the data appealed to the writer in her, the part that loved specifics. Now, in the overly bright waiting room, she felt like a specimen.
“Maeve Kelly?” A woman in pastel blue scrubs stood by a heavy door, a tablet tucked under her arm. She was young, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Chloe, Dr. Ashton’s assistant. Right this way.”
The examination room was a study in sterile control. White walls, grey floor tile, cabinets with locks. And in the center, the chair. It was more imposing than her activity chair at home—a high-backed, padded throne of adjustable angles, with arms that ended in wide, flat rests. Straps dangled from the shoulders, the wrists, the ankles.
“Dr. Ashton will be along shortly,” Chloe said, her voice singsong. “He’s finishing up a consult. We’ll just get you prepped and transferred. Standard protocol.”
“Prepped?” Mae’s voice was flat.
“For the pressure mapping, we need a consistent, non-bulky garment. Street clothes can create artifactual readings.” Chloe opened a cabinet and pulled out a folded item of clothing. It was a pale blue, one-piece garment made of thin, papery material. It opened at the back with a long zipper. An incontinence jumpsuit, the kind used in hospitals.
Mae felt a hot stone drop in her stomach. “I’m fine in my own clothes. My onesie is smooth.”
“Protocol, I’m afraid,” Chloe said, her smile unwavering. “It’s what the system is calibrated for. It won’t take a moment. I’m a certified transfer technician.”
The condescension was a subtle vapor in the air. Mae calculated. Arguing would prolong this. She gave a single, sharp nod. “Fine.”
The transfer from her wheelchair to the examination chair was competent, impersonal. Chloe’s hands were strong and quick. Once Mae was settled on the cool vinyl padding, the assistant got to work.
“Arms up for me, sweetie.”
Mae stiffened at the endearment. She raised her arms, and Chloe pulled the onesie up and over her head, careful with the helmet. The cool air of the room hit Mae’s skin. She was left sitting in her diaper and nothing else, the vulnerable swell of the saturated padding obvious. She’d changed before leaving, but the drive and the wait had taken their toll. It was damp, full.
Chloe’s eyes flickered down, noting it. She made a soft, notation on her tablet. “Alright, let’s get you cozy.” She shook out the blue jumpsuit. It rustled like dried leaves. “This zips up the back. Makes everything easier for us.”
Mae cooperated, threading her arms into the limp sleeves, shrugging the thin material over her shoulders. It was cheap, scratchy. Chloe moved behind her. Mae felt the assistant’s fingers brush the back of her neck, then the long, slow rasp of the zipper being drawn up from the base of her spine to her neck. It was a sound of finality. She was sealed in.
“Comfortable?” Chloe asked, already reaching for the first strap.
Before Mae could answer, the shoulder harness was being secured, clicked snug across her collarbone. Then the waist belt, cinched firm. Chloe moved to her right wrist, looping a wide, padded cuff around it.
“We need full stability for the sensors,” Chloe murmured, her tone one of bored routine. She pulled the strap surprisingly tight, the Velcro closure making a harsh, tearing sound. The padding bit into Mae’s wrist. “There we go. Nice and secure.”
She did the same to the left wrist, pulling even tighter. The restraint was unyielding. Mae’s fingers began to tingle almost immediately. “That’s too tight,” Mae said, her voice low.
“It’s for safety, darling. We can’t have you slipping during the tilt.” Chloe’s words were syrup, her actions steel. She knelt and fastened the ankle straps with the same ruthless efficiency, locking Mae’s feet to the chair’s footrests. Every point of contact was a rigid claim.
Mae was now utterly immobilized. The thin jumpsuit did nothing to hide the pronounced, swollen outline of her diaper beneath it. The heavy, damp bulk was the most salient fact of her physical reality, rendered grotesquely visible by the clinical lighting and the tight, cheap cloth. Chloe stepped back, surveying her work. She picked up her tablet, tapping a few times, then took a photograph. The shutter sound was obscenely loud.
“Just documenting the pre-assessment baseline,” Chloe said, answering the unasked question in Mae’s rigid silence. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that smelled of mint gum. “Don’t you worry. We see this all the time. You’re in good hands.”
The humiliation was a cold, spreading ink. It wasn’t about the diaper; she lived with that every day. It was the theft of autonomy, the reduction to a ‘sweetie’ who needed to be ‘cozy’ and secured for her own good. It was the documentation of her most private state without consent. She tested the wrist restraints. They didn’t give a millimeter.
The door banged open.
Tom stood there, a file folder in his hand, his usual warm composure shattered. His eyes scanned the room, taking in Mae strapped into the chair, her wrists visibly constricted, the demeaning jumpsuit, Chloe with her tablet. His expression cycled from confusion to dawning, icy understanding.
“Chloe. What is this?”
The assistant straightened up, her smile back, bright and professional. “Just following pre-assessment protocol, Dr. Ashton. Patient transferred and secured for the ergo-map.”
“I gave no order for full passive restraints. And what is she wearing?” He was across the room in three strides, his focus entirely on Mae. “Mae. Are you alright?”
The genuine concern in his voice was the key that unlocked something hard in her chest. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “The wrist straps are too tight. And I didn’t consent to being photographed in this… getup.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. He turned to Chloe. “The imaging protocol is for the pressure mat, not the patient. And you use the minimal restraint necessary for safety, which for an alert, cooperative adult is a lap belt. At most.” His voice was quiet, deadly calm. “Unbuckle the wrist and ankle restraints. Now.”
Chloe’s smile faltered. “Regulations state—”
“I am familiar with the regulations. Which also state informed consent is required for any photography. Unbuckle her.”
The air crackled. Chloe, flushed, moved forward and began to unfasten the Velcro. The release was a softer sound this time. Blood rushed back into Mae’s hands in a painful, prickling wave. The ankle straps followed. Tom himself reached over and loosened the shoulder and waist harness by two notches, his fingers brushing her shoulder. “Is that better? Can you move your hands?”
Mae flexed her fingers, working the feeling back into them. She gave a curt nod, watching Chloe slink back toward the door, dismissed without a word.
Tom pulled a stool over and sat in front of her, putting himself at her eye level. His brow was furrowed. “Maeve, I am so sorry. That was a profound breach of protocol and professionalism. It should not have happened.”
“She called me ‘sweetie’,” Mae said, the absurd detail bursting out. “And ‘darling’.”
Tom closed his eyes for a second, pained. “I’ll be having a very long conversation with the clinic director. This assessment is over. We’re leaving.”
He started to rise, but Mae surprised herself. “Wait.”
He paused.
She was still sitting there, strapped in, wearing the ridiculous jumpsuit, her diaper undeniably wet. The initial, furious impulse to flee was cooling into something harder, more determined. The writer in her was awake, observing. This was data of a different kind. The chair itself wasn’t the enemy; the misuse of authority was.
“You said we came for data,” Mae said, her voice quieter now, analytical. “The pressure map. The measurements.”
“Not like this. Not after—”
“I’m already here. I’m already in the stupid jumpsuit.” She met his gaze, her green eyes sharp behind her goggles. “You do it. You run the assessment. No extra straps. No pictures. You.”
Tom studied her face, reading the resolve there. He saw the humiliation, but also the fierce reassertion of control. She was choosing to stay. It was a different kind of consent.
“Alright,” he said softly. “But you tell me to stop at any point. For any reason.” He stood and walked to the computer terminal on the wall, his movements purposeful. He bypassed the locked login, using his own credentials. “The mapping mat is in the seat. It’s just a grid of sensors. It’ll feel a bit like a faint vibration when it activates. It maps points of high and low pressure. That’s all.”
He returned to her side, his manner completely different from Chloe’s. Clinical, but respectful. Explaining each step. He adjusted the chair’s angle incrementally, asking about the strain on her lower back. He noted the pressure readings on the screen, murmuring numbers to himself. He measured the angle of her elbow, the height of her knee.
The entire time, he never once acted as if the swollen outline beneath the blue paper didn’t exist. He didn’t ignore it; that would have been its own weirdness. He simply treated it as part of the physiological landscape, no more worthy of comment than the curve of her spine. It was the most dignified medical interaction she’d ever had.
As he finished, taking a final measurement of her seated height, he spoke without looking up from his tape measure. “The harness on your chair at home. The one you slept in. Did it create any pressure points? Any redness that lasted more than twenty minutes after release?”
The callback to that deep, surrendered sleep was deliberate. It reminded her of a different kind of restraint—one she controlled.
“No,” she said. “Just the creases on my sleeper. It was… secure. Not tight.”
“Good.” He made a note. “That’s the difference. Secure support versus restrictive immobilization. One is a tool. The other is a cage.” He put his pen down. “We’re done. More than enough to design what you need.”
He fetched her clothes from the corner, laying her soft, grey onesie and olive overalls on the stool beside her. He then turned his back, giving her complete privacy as he busied himself shutting down the computer.
“The zipper,” Mae said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He understood. He came over and, with a clinician’s efficient touch, pulled the zipper down the length of her spine. The cool air was a liberation. He then walked to the far wall, examining a chart, his back a solid, discreet wall.
Mae changed quickly, the familiar soft cotton of her onesie feeling like armor after the papery jumpsuit. She transferred herself back into her wheelchair with practiced ease, the fluidity of the movement a reclamation of herself.
Tom turned around only when he heard the click of her wheelchair’s seatbelt. He gathered his files. The blue jumpsuit lay discarded on the examination chair like a shed skin.
“Ready?” he asked.
She looked at the chair, at the straps that now hung loose and harmless. She thought of Chloe’s condescending whisper, and Tom’s furious, protective intervention. She had entered feeling like a specimen. She was leaving with something more valuable than ergonomic data.
She had a villain.
Not a cartoonish one. A real one. The kind that smiles while they remove your choices, that disguises control as care. A perfect, nuanced antagonist for her time-traveling bartender to face.
“Yeah,” Mae said, a new edge in her voice. She spun her chair toward the door. “I’m ready. I’ve got work to do.”
The silence in Tom’s car was different from the clinic’s oppressive quiet. This was the quiet of residual adrenaline, of thoughts churning too loudly for small talk. The city streets blurred past Mae’s window, a stream of normalcy.
She watched his profile as he drove, his hands relaxed on the wheel. “You didn’t have to scorch the earth back there,” she said finally, her voice less edged than before.
“Yes, I did.” His answer was immediate, simple. “It was wrong. And it happened under my recommendation. That makes it my responsibility.”
He didn’t look at her, focusing on merging into traffic. “Besides, I need you to trust me. That kind of stunt obliterates trust. I’d rather build chairs than rebuild broken trust.”
The honesty disarmed her. She leaned her helmet against the cool glass. “Where are we going? Not my place, clearly. You’re driving away from my neighborhood.”
“My place,” he said. “If that’s alright. I owe you a coffee that doesn’t taste like institutional despair. And we can talk without the smell of disinfectant.”
His apartment was in a converted brick warehouse, spacious and lived-in. Books lined the walls, mixed with framed diagrams of ergonomic spines and vintage patent drawings for peculiar tools. It smelled of old paper, coffee, and the faint, clean scent of wood oil.
“It’s a workshop that happens to have a bed,” he said, nodding toward a corner dominated by a sturdy workbench, clamps, and what looked like the partially formed skeleton of a custom backrest. He wheeled her to a plush, well-worn sofa that faced a wall of windows. “Can I get you that coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
She listened to the domestic sounds of him in the kitchen, the grinder, the gurgle of a pour-over. Her eyes traced the spines of his books. Medical texts nestled beside well-thumbed novels. It was a reassuring collage.
He returned, handing her a heavy ceramic mug, and sat in an armchair opposite, cradling his own. The steam rose between them.
Mae took a sip. It was excellent, rich and dark. “So, the rear-zip jumpsuit,” she began, setting the mug on the low table. “Is its only purpose to make people feel like prepackaged meat, or does it have an actual function?”
Tom let out a short, surprised laugh. “Fair question. It has a function, albeit one born from institutional efficiency, not dignity.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “In high-care settings, for individuals who are fully bedridden or require full assistance with changes, it allows a caregiver to provide care without having to fully undress the person. You just roll them, unzip, clean, re-dress. It minimizes movement and strain on the patient.”
“Efficiency,” Mae echoed, the word tasting sour.
“Exactly. And when efficiency becomes the sole god, humanity gets sacrificed at the altar. For someone like you—mobile, independent—it was utterly inappropriate. It was a script they followed without thought.” He shook his head. “A bad tool used for the wrong job.”
Mae absorbed that, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. The warmth was seeping into her, thawing the last of the clinic’s chill. She looked around his space, this curated mix of therapy and life. A question, one she rarely let form fully, pushed its way up.
“In all this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at his books, his workbench. “Have you seen other cases like mine?”
Tom didn’t answer right away. He took a slow drink, his gaze thoughtful. “Define ‘like yours.’”
“The... logistics. The diapers, sure. But the rest. The helmet. The onesies. The need for... for structured support. Not for paralysis, but for... equilibrium.” The words felt clumsy. “People who choose it. Who build a life around specific, non-negotiable needs that aren’t about curing something.”
He met her eyes, his expression utterly serious. “Yes.”
The single word hung there, vast and quiet.
“But not often,” he continued. “And never with your particular constellation of solutions. Maeve, you are an engineer of your own life. Most people get a diagnosis and follow a pre-set path. You got a set of problems and designed your own architecture. The helmet-for-clarity, the onesies-for-seamlessness, the activity chair-for-sleep... that’s bespoke. That’s artistry.”
He set his mug down. “I’ve worked with veterans who rigged their own smart-home systems for limb differences. I’ve met artists with sensory processing disorders who designed entire studios to manage light and sound. You’re in that category. You are a creative problem-solver whose subject happens to be yourself.”
A strange pressure built behind Mae’s eyes. She looked down, blinking hard behind her goggles. No one had ever framed it that way. A defect managed versus a life architected. The difference was tectonic.
“It can feel… incredibly solitary,” she whispered, the admission slipping out.
“I know,” he said, his voice soft. “But listen to me. There is nothing unusual about your lifestyle. Uncommon, yes. Unusual, no. Unusual is pretending we all fit a standard mold. You’ve simply refused to pretend.” He leaned back, his posture open. “And if you want to make more changes, try new tools, tweak the architecture… I’m here. That’s my job. To help you build what you envision.”
Mae looked at him, at the genuine offer in his face, and then past him, out the windows to the city skyline. Her city. She thought of her waiting laptop, of the villain taking shape in her mind, born from today’s petty tyranny. She thought of the deep, anchored sleep the harness gave her. She thought of the comforting weight of a fresh diaper under her soft clothes, a baseline of security from which she could launch herself into any story, any day.
“Alright,” she said, picking up her coffee again. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. “Let’s talk about that mirror clamp. I have a scene in mind that requires very specific angles.”