Saved by the Bell

Disoriented, Jordan stumbled into a college group who were giggling and pointing at the mascot. Suddenly he got a strong push from the side, and he fell into a nearby puddle. As he was getting up, a well-meaning volunteer—a middle-aged woman with a name tag reading Mrs. Bell—spotted him. Her eyes widened with concern as she took in his small stature, shoulder-length blonde hair, the pink scarf, and the mud splattered on his shoes and clothes from the scuffle.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Bell exclaimed, her voice maternal and insistent. "Are you alright? Let's get you cleaned up!"

Jordan opened his mouth to protest, "No, I'm fine—I'm just looking for my wife, Elena." But due to the noise from the crowd, and his soft voice, all Mrs. Bell heard was, "Not fine...looking for...Elena." His youthful appearance and the pink scarf, seemed to reinforce her assumption. She looks like a young adult—around nineteen, separated from her friend.

"Don't worry, honey," she said, gently but firmly taking his arm. "We'll sort this out. Come with me to the first-aid tent. You look like you've had a tumble."

Jordan's heart raced. He tried to pull away, but the crowd was too thick, and he didn't want to cause a scene. "Really, I'm okay," he insisted, but Mrs. Bell was already leading him away, her grip kind but unyielding.

The first-aid tent was a white canvas structure at the edge of the festival grounds, buzzing with activity. Volunteers in red vests bustled about, tending to minor scrapes and handing out water bottles. Mrs. Bell ushered Jordan inside, where a couple of other women looked up from their tasks.

"Found her wandering alone," Mrs. Bell announced. "Looks like she got separated from her friend in the chaos. Muddy clothes and all. What's your name, dear?"

Jordan blinked, realizing the misunderstanding. "I'm Jordan, and I'm a mal—"

"Joanne? That's a nice name," one of the volunteers interrupted, mishearing him amid the noise. She was a plump woman with a warm smile, holding a clipboard. "Alright Joanne, let's get you fixed up."

Jordan's protests fell on deaf ears. His voice, already soft and high, was drowned out by their cooing and the festival sounds outside. They assumed he was shy or perhaps overwhelmed from the crowd. "I'm a male," he tried again, but the words came out weaker than intended.

The volunteers moved quickly. Noticing the mud on his jeans and shoes, they decided a change of clothes was in order. "We have spares in the donation bin," the plump woman said. "Can't have you traipsing around like that." Her name tag said Mrs. Claire.

Before Jordan could react, Mrs. Claire handed her a bag of clothes, and pointed him to a makeshift changing room. Not wanting to make a scene, he went inside and closed the curtain. He removed his muddy shoes, jeans and t-shirt and handed them out through the curtain. Standing behind the screen in his boxer shorts, face burning with embarrassment, he looked at the bag of donated clothes—Adult Petite.