I'll be here...

Waves roar and gnash against the weathered cliff-side miles below your feet. You see colored lights in the distance; stark reds, blues, and yellows that proclaim dominance over the quiet star-light above. Such a sight, the Boardwalk nightlife. A soft sigh looses your lips and your eyes peer over the edge of the cliff.

You ponder the fall. Smashing into the torrents, getting sucked beneath the undertow. Torn asunder and dashed against rocks. Not the "easy way" out you once deluded your mind into accepting.

Gravel crunches and scuffs behind you, pulling you from your thoughts.

Your new visitor shuffles past you with his eyes pressed forward, never blinking. You're first caught off guard by a most distinguishing feature: his physical resemblance to a Siberian Husky dog. The initial shock wears off when you realize what he's planning. He pauses for a moment, then moves closer to the edge. He peeks over, then steps back.

"Having a bad day, stranger?" You say.

The Husky goes rigid.

"Jesus H-" He bit his tongue. "I, uh, didn't see you there."

"I suppose it isn't my business to pry, but it's hard not to notice the way you're looking at that drop." You say.

He says nothing and just pants in an attempt to catch his breath. A small bit of furred flesh protrudes beneath his ill-fitting green polo shirt with each movement of his diaphragm. One lazy bit of double chin oozes over the highest button by his collar. A patch that reads "Sturges Pastry Shop" is skewed atop a generous deposit of adipose on his chest.

"I'm not here for a lecture." He says between defeated breaths.

"Nor am I."

"Good, I'll just be on my way." He steps back to the edge.

"Tell me, first."

"What?"

"Tell me why."

There is only the sound of crashing waves in the distance. He steps away from the edge, plants his hands on his hips, and bends over at the waist. Pearls of sweat dribble down his cheeks. He wheezes a little and looks over to you.

"Just look at me. I can't even keep up a damned jogging pace anymore without falling apart." He said. "I wasn't-" he paused to breath, "wasn't always like this, you know."

You put your arms behind your back and listen patiently.

"I never should have bought a box of Sturges pastries. I swear that's where it all went wrong." A low gurgle fills the air, the husky rubs his gut and sighs. "Oof, just thinking about them is enough to trigger it these days."

"Trigger what?"

"The hunger. It's something else. I feel like there's this little monster inside of me that's always wanting me to eat, and if I don't listen..."

His stomach growled louder, as if to emphasize the point.

"I see." You stroke your chin.

"I tried out Sturges last year, back when they first opened. God, it feels like so long ago now. The moment I took one bite of their cinnamon buns, nothing ever satisfied me quite the same again. I had to eat more, and when I ran out, I had to go get more. When I couldn't get more, I tried to eat to fill the hole those buns left in my stomach. Fifteen pounds later, and I knew something was up."

"So you tried to get off the sweets, but that didn't work out so well."

"Of course." He sighs. "The hunger became so demanding that I lost two jobs for eating on the clock, and a third for stealing burgers at a fast food joint. So I'm on my last leg, My body demands another cinnamon bun, but I need to save money for rent. I fought the urge the whole way to the shop, and I almost won too."

The husky anthro buries his face in his paws.

"The manager says to me 'there's my favorite customer, I have a batch of buns hot n' ready,' and I say not today because I got laid off at my other job so I need to save money on rent. Wouldn't you know it, out of the kindness of his heart, not only does he give me the buns for free, he hires me at the pastry shop right on the spot."

A bitter, humorless chuckle slips his lips.

"Today was my first day. They let me sneak a consistent supply of my favorites, so long as I didn't touch anything else. Closing time happens, I want to go home, when they tell me I can have the buns we didn't sell that day. All of 'em for free. I gorged like a pig. Just one straight hour of eating. I knew how wrong it was, but for the first time in a long time my body was happy."

He looks back up at you with his helpless, pleading eyes.

"I ran the moment I took back control. I lugged my fat, disgusting self as far away as possible. I don't know what they did to me, I don't even know if I can prove it, but if I hang around any longer I'm going to need a forklift just to get around. And the worst part? The only reason I hesitated was because I realized I would never taste another Sturge's Cinnamon Bun if I jumped."

In a surprising gesture, the husky throws his arms around you. You feel the entirety of his heft envelope you. Every supple, warm roll of pudge on his body presses against you. It's a strange feeling, like being hugged by a mattress.

"So I gotta jump, before I lose all control of myself. I wanna die on my own terms. I don't want to explode, or drown in my own fat..."

His words devolve into sporadic sobs. You pat his back, unsure where to go from here. Not exactly what you expected to find on the scenic route to the Boardwalk.

"I'm sure there's a way you can take control again." You say. "No need to throw yourself off a cliff to fix it."

"You think so?"

"I'm positive." You say. "Perhaps we should get you to a doctor?"

"They just tell me the same thing. Diet, exercise, that deal."

A thunderous rumble emanates from his stomach. The husky winces in pain and wraps his arms around his gut. He lets out one sorrowful whine.

"Ohh why won't it stop."

"Alright, let's get you something to eat first, then figure out what to do." You say. "Oh, jeez, where are my manners. My name's Calvin."

"Juneau, like the town." He gives you a slight nod.

"Right, uh, my car's this way."

You stumble down the hill with the hefty husky in tow. His pudgy body wobbles with each step along the way. Somehow you were going to help him, at least you hoped.