Tucker Jefferson strolled through the fluorescent-lit aisles of the local MegaMart on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The store buzzed with the usual weekend chaos: carts clanging, kids whining for candy, and the occasional beep of a scanner. Tucker, a lanky 35-year-old accountant with a receding hairline and a penchant for khakis and button-down shirts, was there for his weekly groceries. Eggs, milk, bread---the mundane staples of adult life. But as he turned into the produce section, something caught his eye.

There, nestled in the child seat of a shopping cart, was a tiny 3-year-old girl, fast asleep. Her mother, a harried woman in yoga pants and a ponytail, pushed the cart absentmindedly while scanning shelves for organic apples. The girl was the picture of innocent slumber, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically. She wore a frilly childish blouse in soft pastel pink, adorned with tiny embroidered flowers along the collar and puffed short sleeves that ended in delicate lace trim. Over it was a denim jumper dress, knee-length with adjustable straps over her shoulders, featuring pockets shaped like smiling butterflies. Her legs were clad in opaque white tights, slightly bunched at the ankles, leading down to shiny black Mary Jane shoes with Velcro straps for easy fastening---practical yet adorable for a toddler prone to wiggles. Everything about her outfit screamed carefree childhood: comfortable, colorful, and utterly unconcerned with the world's judgments.

Tucker paused, his hand hovering over a bunch of bananas. What would it be like, he wondered, to be that small, that unburdened? To nap in public without a care, dressed in such whimsical clothes, shielded from the grind of bills and deadlines. The thought lingered, morphing into a vivid daydream. He imagined himself in her place---dressed exactly like her, right down to the hidden diapers beneath, the kind with crinkly padding for accidents during naps. Suddenly, reality bent to his whimsy. A strange tingle washed over him, like static electricity from a wool sweater.

In an instant, Tucker's sensible khakis and shirt vanished, replaced by an exact replica of the girl's outfit, scaled up to fit his 6-foot frame. The pink blouse hugged his broad chest awkwardly, its lace tickling his skin. The denim jumper draped over him, the butterfly pockets comically oversized on his adult hips. White tights encased his hairy legs, stretching taut and sheer in places, while his feet squeezed into enlarged Mary Janes that clacked unnaturally on the tile floor. Underneath it all, he felt the bulk of a diaper, soft and absorbent, a humiliating yet oddly comforting layer. Glancing back, he saw the girl now wide awake in the cart, swimming in his oversized khakis and button-down, looking bewildered but unharmed.

But Tucker wasn't done fantasizing. He admired her braided pigtails---two neat plaits of golden-blonde hair, tied with pink ribbons, bouncing like playful springs. His own thinning brown hair began to shift. Strands lengthened rapidly, coiling down to his shoulders, the color lightening to a sunny blonde tint. They twisted themselves into identical braids, complete with ribbons that materialized from nowhere. Finally, the deepest swap: their apparent ages and genders traded places. Tucker's body remained unchanged beneath the illusion---still tall, still male, still adult---but to the world, he now appeared as a cherubic 3-year-old girl, pint-sized and feminine, even as his physical form betrayed the truth to any close inspection.

The world saw him as a three-year-old girl even though his body was still clearly that of an adult male. It was a bizarre perceptual glitch, like an optical illusion baked into reality. Tucker blinked, testing it. He picked up his shopping basket---now comically large in his "tiny" hands---and continued down the aisle, heart pounding with a mix of thrill and terror. Would anyone notice? He grabbed a box of cereal, pretending nothing was amiss.

A few shoppers did double-takes. An elderly couple in matching tracksuits whispered as they passed, eyeing what looked like an unattended toddler rummaging through the snack aisle. "Where's her parents?" the man muttered, but they shuffled on without intervening. A young mom with twins in tow frowned, glancing around for a guardian, but she too said nothing, perhaps assuming the "child" belonged to someone nearby. Tucker smirked inwardly, his adult mind reveling in the absurdity. He felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely liberated---like shedding the weight of maturity.

Minutes ticked by as he added yogurt and bread to his basket. Then, a woman in her mid-50s approached, her heels clicking purposefully. She was stout and matronly, with silver-streaked auburn hair pulled into a sensible bun, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a kind but inquisitive face etched with laugh lines. She wore a floral-print blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, sensible loafers, and a gold necklace with a cross pendant--- the epitome of a grandmotherly figure, perhaps a retired teacher or church volunteer, exuding warmth mixed with a no-nonsense authority.

"Sweetie, where's your Mommy?" she asked, bending down slightly, her voice syrupy and pitched high, as if addressing a lost puppy. She smiled encouragingly, treating him exactly like the very young girl he appeared to be.

Tucker straightened up---or tried to, his adult height clashing with the illusion. "I'm old enough to be by myself," he replied, his voice still deep and masculine, but the words came out petulant, like a child's bold declaration.

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She clearly took it as the boastful bravado of a precocious toddler, overestimating her independence. "Oh, is that so, little miss? You're quite the big girl, aren't you? But even big girls need their mommies sometimes. What's your name, honey? I'm Mrs. Hargrove. You look just darling in those pigtails---did Mommy do them for you this morning?"

Tucker felt a flush creep up his neck, the diaper crinkling faintly as he shifted. Part of him wanted to laugh, to shatter the illusion with a grown-up explanation, but the fantasy held him captive. "I'm... Tucker," he mumbled, but it sounded like "Tucka" in his mind, filtered through the whimsy.

"Tucka? What a cute name! Now, let's find your mommy before she worries. Are you playing hide-and-seek?" Mrs. Hargrove extended a hand, her rings glinting under the lights. She cooed gently, as if soothing a fussy child. "Come on, princess. I'll buy you a cookie if you're good."

Tucker hesitated, the basket heavy in his grip. The supermarket spun around him---aisles of canned goods blurring into a playground of possibilities. More shoppers glanced their way, nodding approvingly at the "helpful lady" with the "lost girl." He could feel the pull of the illusion deepening, his adult resolve fraying like the edges of his jumper. What if he played along? What if this was the escape he'd craved?

---

Mrs. Hargrove's grip was firm yet gentle as she steered Tucker toward the customer service desk at the front of the MegaMart. The store's overhead speakers crackled intermittently with announcements about sales on canned soups and lost shopping lists, but Tucker's mind raced with the absurdity of his situation. To everyone around him, he was a lost toddler girl in pigtails and a jumper, but his adult body lumbered along, the oversized Mary Janes scuffing the floor. The illusion held strong---no one questioned the mismatch; they saw only the vulnerable child.

At the desk, a store manager named Carla---a brisk woman in her 40s with a nametag pinned to her red vest, short-cropped black hair, and a clipboard perpetually in hand---took over. "Oh, poor thing," Carla cooed, echoing Mrs. Hargrove's tone. "We'll get you sorted, sweetie. Come with me to the back office; it's quieter there." Tucker allowed himself to be led through a door marked "Employees Only," into a small room cluttered with filing cabinets, a worn couch, and a desk piled with paperwork. The air smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink. Carla gestured to a child-sized plastic chair they'd pulled from storage, probably for just such occasions. "Sit here, honey. We'll find your mommy soon."

Tucker plopped down, the chair creaking under his actual weight, but no one batted an eye. Mrs. Hargrove hovered for a moment, patting his braided head. "Be good, Tucka. I'll check back later." She left with a wave, her loafers echoing down the hall.

Carla radioed security and the local police non-emergency line, but with no immediate leads, she turned to Tucker. A young employee, a teenage boy named Alex with acne and a MegaMart apron, was assigned to watch him. Alex slouched in a corner, scrolling his phone awkwardly. Carla knelt down, her voice soft and reassuring, treating him like fragile glass. "Okay, little one, can you tell me your last name? So we can help find Mommy?"

Tucker shifted, the diaper crinkling subtly beneath his tights. He stared at his hands---adult-sized but perceived as tiny pudgy fingers. "I don't know," he mumbled, his deep voice clashing with the illusion, yet they heard it as a child's lisp.

"How old are you, sweetie?"