I wake with the worst hangover of my life, and discover I’m wearing a Starbucks uniform.
I don’t remember much about last night, an evening, a bar, a group of friendly strangers, rounds of Jager shots and, past that, nothing at all until this moment…
I find the note by my bed and know what it will say even before I open it.
“Your shift begins at three.” It reads, along with an address.
“Well,” I think to myself, resigned to my fate and rising to prepare myself for my new job, “it would appear I have been French-Press ganged.”