As the mother finishes cleaning her child, you finish your makeshift parachute. It's not pretty, but it's sturdy enough, and you've no desire to stay on the station when it's closed back up. As the toddler behind you gurgles happily, you jump.
It works beautifully. Softly you float downwards, like a mote of dust or a graceful bird or a descending parachutist. You smile at your ingenuity, proud of your ability to escape even the most dangerous of situations. Everything was going right.
Suddenly everything went wrong. The massive mother shifted slightly as she lifted her daughter. To her, it was just a few inches. To you, she moved the length of a football field. The side of her thigh slammed into you, a thick denim wall that shattered your hold on the parachute and sent you tumbling out of control. As your paper fluttered away in the breeze, you hurdled downwards.
You gracefully crash into a plain of pink polyester: the stroller seat. "Lucky me," you mutter to yourself, knowing full well that this was anything but. Sure, it broke your fall, but at what cost.
The artificial light far above is eclipsed by the mother holding her child. The child with the fresh diaper. The child who would be sitting in the stroller. The stroller you were currently on.
With a yell, you charge for the edge of the seat. It was a bit of a drop, but you did not come all this way to be smothered under a baby. The mother, far above but getting closer, is bringing the child down. You have seconds. With a final burst of energy, you...
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