When the letter arrived in the mail, to his tiny town in Oklahoma where nothing ever happened, the one that said Julliard, in official letters on the front, Will had not believed it.

He hardly believed it now that he was there. As he weaved through the crowd in the subway, trying not to be late to his shift at the diner on Broadway, his eyes couldn't help but gaze up at the tall buildings as he climbed the stairs two at a time out onto the sidewalk.

New York.

He made it to the diner a minute early, hanging his coat on the rack and moving to grab his apron. Dottie, the nice older waitress who had hired him, looked up from her crossword.

"Still not late, Oklahoma." She said, impressed. He had been there three months and still had never been late or called out. A hard worker, the farm boy with theatre dreams.

It was only noon, a Saturday. No classes, so he had taken an eight hour shift. Singing and making money? Sign him up. Plus, the diner was empty during performances, so he was able to study at the same time.

Will was optimistic, spiteful and vicious. He had fought tooth and nail for this dream, and he was so close. Even had a few auditions in the week, between classes.