She stood there, quivering in fear, the terror of soiling herself causing tears, the imagined humiliation more than she could bear. It was still preferable to going back into that bathroom, bearing her vulnerable skin to the morass of hairy legs in the bowl, even to crap on them, bury them under the putrid contents of her bowels. Putrid contents that even now were forcing their way into her knickers, bulging them out in a distended discoloured mass, a loss of control that left her sinking to her knees, weeping in public, drawing people over to find the problem. They found it, with their noses, not needing to lift her skirt and see the evidence first hand.

Looking up she saw a kindly face, a well dressed woman looking at her with concern.

“Come on,” she said, reaching down to take her hand, “Accidents happen. You’ll be fine, let’s go and get you cleaned up.”

She let the woman lead her into a nearby building, missed the sign on the front, the name of the company the woman worked for: “Stork Supplies”.