Carmen ran his fingers through his hair in frustration as he pulled out a tray of bread. He picked it up and internally groaned, his frustration and anxiety flaring up in a dangerous, destructive cocktail.

“Who the hell made this bread?” He yelled, his accent coming out slightly. “What the fuck happened?”

He tossed a loaf onto the counter, and raked his fingers through his hair, as the discordant cacophony of other workers bustling and arguing through the dinner rush pressed down on him.