Jamie, a boy of about eight with tousled hair and wide eyes, sits bolt upright in bed, his face suddenly tense. He glances anxiously at the clock—the hands barely point past seven. Clutching his stomach, he fidgets on the edge of the mattress, his thoughts racing.

Jamie tiptoes toward the bathroom, his steps quick and careful. But as he reaches for the doorknob, he hears water running and a muffled voice humming a tune. The bathroom door is firmly shut, steam curling from beneath.

Mom, dressed in a bright robe, stands at the counter pouring orange juice. Jamie bounces from foot to foot, desperately trying to mask his discomfort. "Mom, is Dad almost done in the bathroom? It’s really important," "He just got in there, honey. Can it wait a few more minutes?" "I… I don't think so," Jamie responds, voice strained.

Jamie[/@ch_1] paces back and forth. The bathroom door remains firmly closed, the sound of a shower droning endlessly.] Jamie glances around, weighing his options. His hands ball into fists at his sides. Every second feels impossibly long, and his urgency grows with each passing moment.

With determination, Jamie darts outside, the cool air hitting his face. He looks around furtively, spots a line of bushes near the fence, and rushes toward them, relief and embarrassment warring in his expression.

Jamie breathes out, his shoulders finally relaxing. A smile creeps onto his face as he glances back at the house, grateful for nature’s emergency solution. Somewhere, a dog barks, and the morning carries on, ordinary and new.