White Powder

When I come back from the restaurant bathroom, Agent 95 hurriedly turns to hide what he’s doing. I hear the unmistakable sound of something illicit being ingested.

“What are you doing, 95?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I look to the authority on all things 95 -- his younger brother. “What is he doing?”

“Nothing,” Agent 97 says blandly, “but it has something to do with white powder.”

I shift my glance from one to the other. It’s not time for this problem yet, is it?

“Want to see?” Agent 95 asks. He opens his mouth, curling his tongue down toward his chin, and it is indeed heaped with a white powder: a packetful of sugar.

“Can I have another one?” he pleads. “Just one?”

Sure, it's on me!