Reagan looked at the machine with worry, biting her lip. This really shouldn’t be a difficult process. It was a stuffing machine, after all. Practically a blower and a hose. But then, why had Mr. Marlowe been so insistent she not use it before being trained?

“Is something the matter?” The customer, a teenage girl with big eyes and hope in her eyes, asked. She cradled a white lamb doll that had once been fluffy.

“No. No, just got distracted by something,” Reagan asked. It was technically true. She was distracted by the fact she had no idea what she was doing. Pressing a button, the slight electric thrum came from within as the motor whirred to life. The blower began to blow, rattling the casing.

“Is it supposed to do that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Reagan said, gently reaching for the injured toy. Marlowe’s had a well-known policy of repairing any damage to their toys for free, no matter how old. Judging by the wear on the sheep, its stains, and its missing bell, it was an old toy, indeed. Reagan fumbled with the stuffie, finding the opening where the old plush had come out of while holding the hose connected to the machine.

She must have hit the trigger because white, fluffy cotton flew out of the nozzle, and Regan yelped as she dropped the hose. Stuffing kept rushing out. The only thing she could think to do was grab the end and clamp her hand over the opening. That, at least, would stop the growing mess. “It’s fine! Everything is fine,” she said to the concerned customer as she panicked, looking for the off switch to get control again.

The plush pushed against her hand, yearning to get out. It tickled, but it also tingled, somehow. She noticed some of the cotton littered around her sparkled like magic. Strangely, the tingling began to build up in her hand. Then, in her arm. A tingling followed by a pressure as the machine’s motor began to rev louder. From her head down to her toes, it felt like she was being stuffed.

“Um,” Reagan said, admitting defeat, “could we wait for my manager to get ba-a-a-a-ack!” The pressure filling her broke.

Fwomp

In a moment, Reagan had grown a white wooly body. A cute body with plush mittens and hooves, a body with a stuffed collar and jingling bell. And then there were the floppy sheep’s ears, and behind her, a tail. The machine went silent. Reagan turned sheepishly to the customer, who stared at her.

Reagan wasn’t sure what to do now. There hadn’t been any training for what to do if you’re accidentally turned into a stuffie. All she could think of was, at the least, doing her job as best she could. “I think I lost your toy in the chaos. Do you mind helping me find it?”

The customer never took her eyes off Reagan. “I think you are my toy.”

Reagan shook her head, her floppy cloth ears flopping. “No, that can’t be. It, um, doesn’t make sense, Mary.”

“If it doesn’t make sense, then how do you know my name’s Mary?”

“Lucky guess?” Reagan winced.

“I’m going to ask you a question only Lamby would know.”

Lamby shook her head, not thinking she would like that game, but Mary started it anyway. It was just like Mary to take charge of the situation.

“A few years ago, on my birthday, something important happened to you. What was it?”

The answer came to Lamby as easily as anything. There was a chase. Laughing, then crying. A thicket. Falling. “I got lost in the woods, but that doesn’t…”

“For how long?”

Staring at the sky through tree branches. Wind. Rain. A hopping rabbit. “Three days, but I’m not just…”

“And who found you?”

Shears. Leaves moving. A face. Relief. “Mom found me while doing yard work,” Lamby admitted, starting to feel the truth of the situation. She had all these memories of games and toys and playing all the time that were hers, and not hers. And she had all these other memories of school and work and life that were also hers, but not hers. “I’m so confused,” she said.

“I’m not.” Mary said, taking Lamby by the stuffed mitten, her smile broadening. “You’re even better than before. Let’s get you home, Lamby.”