Amelia wanted a cookie.

This really should not have been a problem at all. After the previous cookie incident, Amelia had - under orders from her parents - walked much less than before (and that was already very little). The cookies were, along with most of the rest of the food in the house, made more accessible so as to prevent any further dangerous adventures.In fact, Amelia’s nightstand was currently fully stocked with a jar of chocolate chip cookies and a box of imported sugar cookies from France. In theory, she should be perfectly happy. The problem was only that the cookie she wanted was the only cookie she couldn’t have.

Amelia had always been a larger girl. Since her youth she had always eaten too much (often much too much). Everything from apples to quail, from marinara sauce to zoological curiosities from the Far East, had passed through her mouth. It was highly unusual that something existed that Amelia had never eaten.

But so it was with the elusive Christmas Cookie. Every Christmas Eve a special cookie, handmade by Amelia’s mother, lay on a special plate by the tree. Every Christmas morning it was gone. Amelia had, for all her entreaties and efforts, never been able to try it.

And now, at 11:17 PM, she was hungry.

She ate some cookies from her bedside stash as she thought. It was certain that her family would notice if the ham was gone; same with the scalloped potatoes and everything else for the meal tomorrow. The only thing, she realized as the last cookie passed through her lips, was the Christmas Cookie. It was small, to be sure, but Santa ate it every year, and had the energy to continue onward; it must logically be full of energy and calories. It was also true that nobody would know she ate it. Since Santa ate it normally, a missing Christmas Cookie would be nothing but normality. It was the perfect plan - excluding, of course, actually reaching the cookie. Amelia hadn’t quite thought that all the way through.

It was hard enough to get from the couch to the kitchen at 470 pounds. To get to the cookie, she must go from her bedroom to the living room - twice the previous distance - with an additional 110 pounds attached to her small frame. Of course, she had some aid - a sturdy walker was needed to get her pretty much anywhere - but she was never without help, and to even use it she had to first stand up, a task that she hadn’t accomplished alone for some time. She was breathing heavily just thinking about it.
Nevertheless, if she wanted the cookie, it would have to be done. So, with no small effort, she rotated her hefty body towards the side of the bed and allowed her doughy legs, clad snugly in a pair of enormous silk pajama pants, to hang over the edge. Her belly, a massive, pale slab of pillowy lard, followed suit, dangling freely from her equally snug pajama top between her legs to wobble gently near her shins. She sat there, gathering her meager strength, before pushing herself off and onto her soft feet.

The floor was freezing. She blinked. That had been much easier than she expected! Sure, she was wheezing already, and her legs were screaming with the effort, but she had done it! After another few minutes of recovery, she shuffled forward in an experimental step.

Something slid beneath her butt. After about twenty seconds of monumental confusion she realized that a part of her - in fact a very significant part of her - was still being supported by the bed and not her legs. With a sigh, she took another step forward and grabbed hold of her walker.

At that moment her shelf of rear fell off the bed. Another 40+ pounds dropped heavily onto her beleaguered legs and her grand adventure nearly ended right there, with her grounded on the floor. Luckily, some sort of fate intervened, and all that happened was her dropping back onto the bed, deeply startled and harshly wheezing.

A normal girl - well, a normal girl of similar size - would probably have given up here. Amelia, however, was not one to take defeat, and so, with the aid of her walker, slowly struggled back upwards. Her thighs met uncomfortably with the metal legs - presumably it was time for an upgrade - but there was no time to think about that now. There was, after all, a cookie at stake.

With a slight groan, she took her first toddling step, seven years of accumulated eating jiggling their slow way towards sweet, sweet victory. Each labored swing of a fat-swaddled leg set pushed forward on her exposed stomach and sent new and fresh wobbles through her myriad folds. The walker creaked, having difficulty with this strain, but kept up admirably, wheels squeaking across the carpet like not-very-chipper mice. It wasn’t too long - seven minutes at the most - before she arrived.

Well, arrived may not be the most accurate term - she was, after all, only at the door of her room - but one must set manageable goals. She took the opportunity to lean heavily on the wall, panting and gasping for air, before girding herself for the most strenuous part of her plan.

Since Amelia moved so rarely, and never without help, her parents hadn’t deemed it important to widen her door, choosing instead to spend that money on yet more food. Thus, when it came time for her to enter or exit her room - or really anywhere in the house - parental assistance was required. One stood on one side, one stood on the other, and together they pushed and pulled the sideways Amelia through the cramped space. For her to go through alone was, naturally, going to present some tremendous difficulties - first of those being simply entering the doorway without something to lean on. She waddled her frame perpendicular to the opening and, preparing for the worst, pushed off from her walker.

Yet more force pushed onto her straining feet. These poor little limbs, designed to support around 50 pounds, were now each supporting nearly six times that. She couldn’t bear the thought of speed now, but also knew that she couldn’t stand for much longer, so, trying not to cry, she wedged herself hip-first into the doorway.
Compared to the agony of standing unaided, this was like bliss. Sure, her feet still screamed for aid, and now the frame was pinching her belly and behind rather unpleasantly, but at least she had some support. Thus encouraged, she began the arduous process of doorway navigation.

Shuffle, shuffle. Shuffle, shuffle. Wheeze. Shuffle, shuffle. Gasp. Shuffle.

Amelia reached up unhappily with one stubby arm and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She’d been shuffling for what seemed like ages and hadn’t gotten anywhere. Her belly was pushed into the corner of the open door; her butt was caught on the strikeplate where the latch slid into the wall. It seemed like further progress was all but impossible.

Then, with a rip, a loud groan, and a sudden pop, she was free. Once again, she nearly toppled to the ground; once again, providence intervened, and she landed heavily against the opposite wall, miraculously not damaging it too heavily. A wry smile spread across her flabby face. Luck was on her side!

Unfortunately, the walker was not. With great difficulty she heaved herself to a more upright position and lurchingly lunged for the doorway, making it across the hallway in a record-breaking thirty seconds. With a final gasp of effort she reached an arm inside and pulled her walker to her. The most difficult part of the evening was over. She rested on her laurels, pleased as punch, before waddling off to the cookie.

_________________________________


Twenty-five minutes later, she was there. Her pajama pants, rent asunder from her struggle with the door, had completely fallen apart due to the strain her shifting legs put upon it and lay in tatters round her widened ankles, and her pajama top’s buttons had somehow worked themselves loose from their holes, allowing a chill draft to caress her stomach, but she was there. The state of her clothing was far less important than the cookie sitting before her.

It wasn’t outwardly a terribly interesting cookie. It looked very much like a much larger but otherwise quite standard sugar cookie - only the small hand-lettered sign “For Santa” belied its true purpose. Amelia, half-starved from the effort of motion, had no desire to savor the moment. With one chubby hand and a series of ponderous motions she lifted it from its plate and stuffed it into her mouth.

It was everything she could have hoped for and then some. A myriad of flavors - sugar, yes, but lemon and orange and chocolate and caramel and some she couldn’t even identify - swirled around in her mouth. She closed her eyes with pure delight and swiftly ate the rest. Not a crumb escaped her hungry maw.

She savored the taste for a few moments longer before patting her stomach with satisfaction and making plans to turn around. As she did, she inadvertently took one last glance at the plate.

The cookie, pristine and perfectly formed, was still on it.

Amelia blinked. Blinked again. Had she imagined it? No, nobody could have simply imagined such a marvelous concoction of flavors. With trepidation, she picked up the cookie once again, eyed it carefully, and took another bite.

The same flavorful bliss as before washed over her enormous frame. This time, she was less careful with her crumbs, but still most of the cookie ended up in her mouth. Satisfied, she looked at the plate again.

It was still there.

Amelia was now getting really quite annoyed. When she ate food, she expected it to be eaten - uneaten food was clearly not worth her time, as it was most certainly not providing her with any caloric benefit. This cookie was being quite stubborn indeed - but she was Amelia, Terrorizer of Cookies, and she would not be bested. Eyeing the plate carefully, she ate it a third time.

She held her eyes wide open as she chewed. Nothing. Her eyes were watering, but still she stared, unblinking, until she could no more - and there it was again, good as new.

Amelia found this truly and utterly ridiculous, but she had to press on. It was a matter of honor now - the cookie was her enemy, and she would vanquish it. She ate it again. And again. And again.

By the twentieth re-eating she was really beginning to feel the strain. This was the longest she’d remained standing in ages; her legs were wobbling even more than usual, begging for a seat, her breathing was running ragged, and her feet burned against the soft carpet, but she shook it all off. She must win!

Her overloaded body, however, had other plans. As she reached out for the twenty-first time, her knees buckled beneath her excess mass and sent her tumbling unhappily to the ground with a massive thud. The table the cookie rested on jumped; a portrait of Great-Aunt Doris fell off the wall and crashed to the floor. Something in her butt twinged.

She held her breath and tried not to cry out. Her parents surely would have heard that; there was no way they couldn’t have, after all. Soon enough they’d be awake and scolding, hauling her back to bed. The crumbs would serve as evidence enough to convict her of the terrible crime she’d committed. It would likely be the end of excursions or - even worse - cookies in general.

But, as her flabby body ceased wobbling and the blood rushed out of her head, there was nothing. Not a sound - other than her loud wheezing - could be heard. She had escaped for the moment. Not entirely - somebody would have to help her up later - but for now, at least, she could resume conquering the cookie, which had very fortunately landed next to her head. She picked it up and stuffed it down her gullet for the twenty-first time.

And the twenty-second.

By thirty-five she could see that there was some sort of severe problem in her method of acquisition. Her arms were simply too slow, especially since all the eating was really overtaxing their limited range of motion. Luckily, she had a trick up her sleeve.

She picked up the plate and, ever so carefully, angled it against her swell of belly and excess chins just enough to allow the cookie to slide gracefully into her mouth. This it did, and for a moment she thought she might have conquered the cookie at last.

Then, it slid in again, and she resigned herself to the inevitable. The cookie could not be beaten. Amelia, round girl extraordinaire, had lost to a round piece of dough.

Oh well, she thought to herself as it slid down yet again, at least it’s good.

__________________________________________

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Black boots strode across the carpet, deftly avoiding both the slightly-askew ottoman and the remainders of Great-Aunt Doris’ picture frame, to arrive next to the sleeping mound on the floor. Amelia had clearly met her match - the crumbs were everywhere, coating the young girl’s valley of chins as well as the floor and the rest of her exposed frame. She snoozed happily, a small bubble of drool rising and falling in time with the motions of her overstuffed stomach. The owner of the boots chuckled lightly to himself and gave her a pat on the head before plucking the cookie, pristine as ever, from its plate atop her frame.

“Gosh, I love this house.”