You were a humble, minimum-wage working attendant at the Red Ball Diner. It was a Friday evening and you wanted nothing more than to drop your mop and bucket and flee the restaurant— too bad you had an entire hour left on your shift!

As you begrudgingly scrubbed the scuffed tile floor, the diner door flew open and a familiar wooden figure stumbled inside, oak hands clamped over his face— "Oh, Wallter, I'm so sorry!" He was practically wailing as he threw himself into a booth and proceeded to sob his wooden eyes out.

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