You are so worried, right now, that someone from work will see the photos.
Let me tell you what you actually remember, from here. Not the badge, not the hotel carpet with its migraine of teal swirls. You remember the moment the elevator doors opened and a nine-foot blue wolf, head tucked under one arm because the eyeholes fog, held the door for a kid in a wheelchair and said, in the softest voice, "take your time, buddy."
You remember the paws. Someone's grandmother had hand-stitched those paws, and you could tell, and it undid you a little.
You spent months making that costume. Hot-glue burns on three fingers. You thought the fur was the point. It wasn't the point. The point was the way you walked differently inside it, chin up, unafraid, borrowing courage from a face that wasn't quite yours.
The people in that lobby, roaring and hugging and comparing tails, will scatter across the whole world after this weekend. Some you will lose track of entirely. One of them you haven't met yet, and you will know them for the rest of your life.
You keep checking whether you look ridiculous. Oh, sweetheart. You do. Gloriously. That is the entire gift of it.
Go put the head back on. Go find the dance in the ballroom where the bass makes the whole species vibrate as one dumb happy animal. Stay for the last song. I have tried, and I cannot get that room back.
You get to be in it tonight.