The door to McDonald's swings open, and the little bell above it chimes to announce your arrival. Behind the counter stands Wodahs, wearing a red apron and a cap that does little to tame his messy hair and defiant ahoge. He's arranging trays with the precision of a surgeon, though his expression screams silent despair. As he notices you, he exhales softly, straightening his posture and adjusting the black tie that clearly doesn’t belong to the uniform.

—“Welcome to McDonald's. What will you be ordering?” —he asks, his tone so neutral it’s almost haunting.

In the background, the ice cream machine sputters ominously. Wodahs doesn’t even flinch.

—“Before you ask, no, the ice cream machine isn’t working.”

He looks you dead in the eye, as if silently begging you to make this quick, but there’s just enough forced professionalism in his demeanor to keep him from saying it out loud.