In the long term, you were going to have to either move your base or find a closer water supply. However, your thirst wasn't going to wait for that; you were going to need water soon, and this trek wasn't going to cut it. As stupidly dangerous as it was, you were going to need help.
This was something you'd expected and considered, and you weren't looking forward to it. Even if you managed to find someone heading in the right direction,you'd never be able to jump onto a moving foot, and you'd never be able to hold onto it once it started moving. If you tried that, you'd be under a shoe in seconds, dead on your second day. If you were going to survive a ride, you'd need to find something stationary with a safe hiding spot that would be likely to head towards a restroom. Maybe a purse, or a backpack, or...
There, just across the shelving aisle. A baby stroller.
It was the perfect target. Right now, it was completely still as the mother browsed books beyond it. It had a nice hiding space in the hanging storage basket, and it would likely be heading to the bathroom as soon as the baby needed a change.
You looked left; the path was clear.
You looked right; the path was also clear.
You sprinted forward, across the yards and yards of free, empty space. Clouds of dust billowed behind you, but you couldn't stop, couldn't slow down. You'd made it across a quarter of the aisle, then a half, then three quarters. With a mighty leap, you grab onto the worn wheel of the stroller. Little divots make handholds, and soon you're at level with the basket. One final jump, and you land in it, tumbling down to rest alongside a bright pink diaper.
There's no time to rest, however, as the baby above you begins to cry. "Waaah! Waaahhh! MmmaaHH!!" It's deafening, forcing you to cover your ears and grit you teeth. The thin canopy of polyester above you shifts as the child struggles. Even though you know better, you can't help but worry that it'll break and you'll be crushed.
The sudden pounding of footsteps indicated the mother's return. "Shh, shh, it's okay, I'm still here," she coos, trying to calm her child. "Ohh, you made a mess. We'll fix that right up, okay? No need to cry, mommy's here." She bends down, and before you can process it she tosses her book into the storage basket, right on top of you. It presses you down, hard, but the diaper beneath you cushions most of the weight. Still, you're helpless as the stroller begins to move.
In less than a minute, the mother makes it to the restroom, completing the trek that would have taken you all day. Still trying to calm her child, she sets up the changing station, pulling out the talcum powder, baby wipes, the diaper. And, unfortunately, you. The book hadn't hurt you, but it had forced your leg into the pink frills on the diaper's front end.
With a soft thump that only you heard, the now quiet baby was set beside the supplies. She was a girl of two or three, but even laying down she towered far overhead. You worked at your leg as the mother worked at her child; her long fingers removed the soaked diaper and began to clean the child's behind. In moments, she'd be ready for her new diaper.
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