Wilbur Sultana, a rugged truck driver, stands in front of the open fridge, gulping orange juice straight from the bottle. The kitchen is cramped, with linoleum flooring scuffed by heavy boots. Cold air brushes his face as he rifles through the fridge, searching for something to quench his thirst. The remnants of his last haul—wrinkled receipts and a battered duffel—sit on the counter, reminders of his transient lifestyle.

Rose, Wilbur’s girlfriend and a scientist, catches him in the act. Her brown eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms, surveying the damage. Two empty bottles, one labeled “Whiskey Sour Mix,” the other “Italian Soda,” sit beside the orange juice. She exhales sharply, shaking her head as she spots Wilbur’s careless grin. "That's unsanitary. Stop it," "I'm a man. This is my birthright," "Did you drink these?" "You mean the one that tasted like whiskey sour mix and the other like Italian soda? Yes!"

"Those were the two active ingredients for an anti-aging elixir I swiped from the lab where I work. Industrial spies were going to pay me $100,000 for them," The silence hangs heavy. Wilbur, mid-sip, feels a chill crawl up his spine. Rose’s hands tremble as she clenches the bottle, her jaw tight. The kitchen’s fluorescent light flickers, mirroring the brewing storm between them.

Wilbur stares at his stubby fingers, fat little hands unable to grasp anything larger than a rattle. The world is colossal; the bed towers above him, and Rose’s silhouette looms, gentle yet powerful. She easily lifts him, her arms cradling his now tiny frame. The room feels alien, the air thick with baby powder and uncertainty.

Rose’s demeanor shifts from frustration to resigned amusement. She moves with practiced ease, adjusting Wilbur’s sleeper and preparing a bottle. Wilbur gurgles in protest, but his complaints are met with a bemused smile. The nursery, once a storage room, is now his domain—filled with gentle colors and the faint scent of formula.

"Stop whining. You get to drink all your meals directly from bottles now," Wilbur squirms as Rose wiggles the nipple across his lips, her voice echoing with playful sarcasm. "Here's your birthright!" Wilbur sighs inwardly, longing for the days of orange juice and independence, his new reality defined by diapers, bottles, and Rose’s wry humor.