"It's called a loophole," Abby said proudly. "Daddy says I'm very good at finding them."
Clare laughed. "Too good sometimes." She turned to me. "You don't have to if you're not comfortable. We can just play or watch a movie. But it might help take your mind off things."
I thought about Zoe, about the team working to keep her safe. About my own swirling emotions and confusion. Maybe a distraction would help.
"Okay," I said eagerly. "Let's go."
Abby squealed with delight. "You need to change first! You can't go in those clothes."
I looked down at my plain t-shirt and jeans. "What's wrong with these?"
"Nothing if we stay here," Clare explained. "But the club has a dress code. For the Little room, it's either Little clothes or regular club attire."
"I don't have either," I pointed out.
Abby was already running to another room. "I have extras! We're about the same size."
I doubted that, but I waited.
Clare gave me a reassuring smile. "You don't have to wear anything you're not comfortable with. Just something that fits the space."
Abby returned with an armful of clothing. "I brought options!"
Twenty minutes later, I found myself in the elevator wearing a soft pink sweater dress with white leggings and sparkly ballet flats. My hair was tied in low pigtails with ribbon.
"You look adorable," Abby declared, dressed in a frilly blue pinafore over a white blouse herself.
Clare wore a more subdued outfit—jeans and a t-shirt with cartoon characters, but she’d plaited her hair, her age space clearly older than Abby's.
"Remember," Clare said as the elevator descended, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You can just observe."
I nodded, suddenly nervous. The elevator doors opened to reveal a sleek, modern hallway.
I stepped out of the elevator, my ballet flats silent on the polished floor. The hallway was dimly lit with warm, welcominglighting that made me feel like I was entering somewhere special rather than intimidating.
"This way," Clare said softly, leading us down a corridor lined with what looked like children's artwork in elegant frames. "The Little room is through here."
As we approached a set of double doors painted in soft pastels, I could hear muffled sounds from within—laughter, music, the gentle hum of conversation. My stomach fluttered with nerves and anticipation.
Clare pushed open the doors, and my breath caught in my throat. The room was like something out of a fairy tale—or a very expensive children's playroom. Soft lighting cast everything in a warm glow, and the space was divided into different areas: a reading nook with oversized cushions, an art station with adult-sized tables and chairs, and yes, an actual treehouse built into one corner.
"It's beautiful," I whispered.
"And see?" Abby pointed to various groups of people scattered throughout the room. "Everyone's just being themselves."
She was right. I saw adults coloring at small tables, others curled up reading picture books, a group playing with blocks near the train set. Some were dressed similarly to us, others in more casual clothes. What struck me most was how relaxed everyone looked—no pretense, no masks, just people being themselves.
"Come on," Abby said, tugging on my hand. "I want to show you the art corner first."
We made our way over to a section filled with tables covered in art supplies. Crayons, markers, colored pencils, and stickers were organized in cheerful containers. Several people were already seated, working on various projects.
"Pick any table," Clare said. "What sounds fun to you?"
I looked around, feeling overwhelmed, and I looked over at a group of people building what looked like a zoo complete with plastic animals, cages, and pens, and then suddenly everything was just too damned much, and it was like I couldn't breathe. I tried to take a deep breath and I couldn't. I turned and bolted for the door, except in my rush I ran right smack into it.
Except it wasn’t a door.
It was a Daddy.
