School lock-in, some anti-drug thing. At least they held it at the coffee bar, the normal teen hangout from my school. A double decaf mocha capp won't change the world - but at least it makes the outrageously boring somewhat more acceptable.

    Truth be known, the only furs present who were not annoyed and unimpressed by the righteousness of the proceedings were the squeaky clean ones who'd never touched drugs in their lives, and the more fortunate ones who were already too stoned out of their skulls even to care. I was only there because of the offer of free java.

    Should have just paid my own way, then I'd be able to leave.

    Or at least go outside. It was a lock-in, literally. The cool radiating from the window pane beside my cheek seemed like a mercy of freedom in the hot stuffy room. I was contemplating just how much damage I could do to the glass with the white wire chair on which I sat. It felt like a prison movie, without the angst. And threat of tail-yiff.

    There was a sudden shriek. It wasn't one of the twice-virgin vixens in the corner, the ones who fainted in scandal at the sight of a fake joint, a faux-bloody syringe. The fox at the table next to me jumped up, cascading and splashing, the front of his pants soaked with scalding coffee. The look of shock on the waitress' muzzle was surpassed only by the expression of agony and fright on his.

    I guess I reacted without thinking. Didn't even know him. Or what to do. But in an instant my paw was down the front of his pants, holding the steaming cloth away from that most sensitive portion of his private self. It burned against the sable fur of my paw, but at that very moment it didn't matter. There was a flare of sheeting silence in the room. And that merciful cottony fog of insanity which follows all emergencies, the sort that makes even the most bizarre acts of rescue tastefully unquestionable.

    "Think I'd better get to the bathroom," he said. "Umm, thanks..."

    I nodnodded, withdrew. The searing caloric energy of the coffee had dissipated, diluted by cloth and air which would have only worsened the damaging burn just moments ago. The foxboy turned then without a word, and made his way to the restroom.

    I sat back down at the table. Alone now, I first noticed. Wet up to my wrist. Not like the furs sharing the nook before knew me or anything. Or cared. But the crowded adolescent stares in the small coffee house were now heavy in the demanding oppressive silence. Literally, everyfur in the place was looking right at me.

    Desperately I wished that the stupid presentation would go on. Just to get the eyes off me. Just to get on with it, muzzles pointed in another direction, so I could soonest escape the awkward scene, the awful stares and unpleasant speculations. What would it look like now if the crazy orange ferret smashed through the plate glass shop window, climbed through screaming into the night? The pressure threatened to flatten me where I sat. I couldn't breathe.

    The bathroom door creaked, cool air rushed against my face as I nosed through. It was small and rather dark, severe artsy paint lit by only a single bulb. Standing before the sink was the foxboy, pants and boxers around his ankles, shirttail covering tailbase. I felt myself blush, backed towards the door. "Umm, sorry..."

    "Oh, it's you. I'm ok. Uh..." Some things are harder said for the teenage indignity of one's ass hanging out. "Thanks. I really could have taken some damage there."

    I nodded. He had half-turned while speaking, and the unbuttoned bottom of his shirt showed a plump but firm foxy tummy, an ample fuzzy sheath. Which looked ok, at least not parboiled by steaming frothed mocha. He sponged at himself with cool wet toweling. I cast my eyes down for modesty's sake.

    And saw in his boxers something white. Looked like more paper towels for a moment. Then I made it out. A disposable diaper.

    Now the first thought through my head - hay, my reactions are ferret-quick, even if they're a bit too decisive - wasn't about the strangeness of this other teen wearing a diaper. It was: damn, if the scalding coffee had gotten into those, under the plastic layer, it would have poached his sheath right off! I stared, wide-eyed before the horror of that prevented outcome. He caught me looking, assumed the worst.

    "It's none of yer business. I like 'em. Now just go away. Thanks, but... I don't need any more help."

    I nodnodded. Disciplined my embarrassing eyes from the sight of the foxboy's shame. In every good deed there's an humiliation await. I turned to go.

    "Sorry, dude," he said, shakily. "It's just that... I..." the foxboy dissolved to tears, released by the fist of adrenaline panic which had held him to that burning stake, the stricture of stoic masculinity. I shuffled over across the gritty floor, passed a paw around his shoulder.

    "It's ok, foxxor," I whispered. "It scared the hell outta me too."

    I rubbed his tummy with a paw.

    He rested his muzzle against my neck.

    The strange ugly walls sucked up the light. Droplets at the sink counted the seconds.

    The door squeaked open, a bursting bang in that interrupted moment. Three vixens crowded noisily in, brandishing compacts and brushes, other insensitive instruments of the giggling girltrade. The foxboy and I jumped apart, startled. Thrust again into that reality in which guys never hug in the bathroom except on PBS TV.

    Those girls took in the sight of him, pantsed and wet, perceived the vacuum in visual space where I'd just been standing. And laughed raucously, mocking what act they thought they'd caught, in delicto so flagrante. And losing the steadiness of heart which had been twice tested tonight, I fled that sordid little bathroom, leaving the half-naked vulpine to his taunting fate at the acid-tongued kindred mercy of that trio of villainous vixens.

    I felt instantly such a fool. Such a shameless coward. How could I have bolted like that? But I really wasn't myself either at the time. I ran all the way to the door of the shop.

    Locked. It's a lock-in remember?

    All the other furs had turned again at the pounding squeal of my sneaks on the painted cement floor, at the demanding rattle and shivering bang against the door. It was like a dark spiral, whirlpool fate catching you by the scruff and pulling ever deeper, drowning you in impossible possibilities. A scream started somewhere between my ears, found my muzzle. That wire chair went through the glass like steam through hot milk, a foam of dangerous shards billowing across the sidewalk outside.

---

    The night air was cool and still as I hid behind the trash dumpster. I heard sirens come, police cars drive away loaded with doughnuts and frustration briefly after. It really was no use running - they all knew my name.

    "Athalon?"

    I looked up. The foxboy. He settled beside me in the anonymous darkness.

    "You doing ok?"

    I nodded. "You?"

    "Yeah. Seems we both had a bit of an adventure..."

    I giggled. It just burst out. Happens when I'm nervous. Had the cops still been in the area, we would have been busted in a flash.

    "Lets' just get outta here," he said. "Ya wanna come to my house?"

    I turned to look at him.

    "After all," he added, "we might as well be friends. You've already seen my sheath..."

    I nodded again, smirked. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my muzzle. It clicked when I pried it free.

    "Looks like you need a drink," he offered. "We could get something on the way."

    "Ok," I managed to croak. "But soda. Cold. And lots of ice." I nosed at the front of his pants indicatively.

    We laughed. And that was the start of a different story.