Still getting used to his new surroundings, Mike worries about his upcoming lunch with Fred.
Of all the "Chicas" in the apartment complex, you'd surely have pegged Cheeky as the most casual and mellow, by far. Having met Goose, however, Cheeky seems positively high-strung by comparison. Not that you're complaining, of course. A bit of chill sounds heavenly right about now. You know deep down that you've only buried yourself in chores all day in a desperate attempt to cling to normalcy.
You wonder if your less fortunate neighbors and friends don't wake up every morning feeling the exact same way. Your confrontation with Bonworth, Faz, and Cheeky has taken on an entirely different light. The non-disclosure agreements were just an excuse to ignore delving into their own uncomfortable truths.
Shame washes over you anew. No, not shame, exactly...
Rather, empathy?
The fact of the matter is, you don't really want to talk about what happened at Fred's any more than Faz wants to talk about the "turn-key" animatronic costume that put him in permanent hospice. If you never see Jeremy Human or his house of horrors again, it'll still be too soon -- and that's to say nothing of Goldie Fazbear.
Right now, more than anything else, you just want to forget everything that's happened this last week and get back to status quo. Indulging Bonnibel as she frets over simple concerns, watching Frederick cook delicious food, listening to Haddock's pirate yarns that never quite go anywhere. Exchanging flirty jokes with Cheeky, going shopping for mundane items with Beanie. Trussing yourself up in flannel pajamas and settling in for awful romantic comedies under the playfully-stern direction of Chiclet.
Knowing what you know now, you envy the days when your biggest hurdles to overcome were Mangle's disregard for your personal space and Bonworth's graceless jokes at your expense.
Unfortunately for your pride, it's in for a penny, in for a pound. For whatever reason, you've been shipwrecked on the island of misfit toys, and in the process you've become one of them. The one thing you've got going for you is that you know they're not going to judge you for your recent dive off the deep end; the hardest part is figuring out how not to judge yourself.
"Listen, new guy." Goose rolls over on her side to "look" in your direction. "You seem nice and all, but I'm gonna have to ask you to shut up. You talk way too much."
Jarred from your thoughts, you jerk your head up, chuckling awkwardly.
"Oh man, I did kind of blank out there for a minute."
"It's fine," she says with a sleepy grin. "I was like, 'uh oh, he didn't get up and leave, did he?' You'd be surprised how often Bonnie does that without warning me."
"She does seem like the kind that's, uh, easily distracted. Case in point, she's been holed up in her room since dinner -- which was hours ago."
"That makes sense." Goose seems to count something off on her feathertips before nodding. "It's her roleplaying night. She sits around in a chat room with her buddies online and they pretend to be humans or something. You into that kind of thing too?"
"Who, me?" You smirk and roll your eyes, only to remember that such expression is lost on her. "Nah, Goose, I can't say I'm in the habit of hanging out online with other lonely animals, pretending to be something I'm not."
You decline to mention that you do enough of that in real life.
"Shame. I think I'd have a lot of fun in one of those groups. Not the humie thing, but like, I could imagine myself as some mystic Egyptian queen or something. I always thought those old Arabian Night kinda stories were interesting, and admit it -- I could totally rock a pair of harem pants."
She wiggles her hips coyly for emphasis, and you clap appreciatively.
"Absolutely. Just have one of our resident artisans whip you up a silk pair with some sequins, and you'd be good to go."
Goose laughs a particularly avian-sounding trill as she reclines on the couch. "Yep, that's me all right."
"I was going to ask, actually. What's up with the sequin thing?" you inquire, idly scratching at your leg's bandages.
"Eh, I just like the way they feel." Goose runs a wingtip lazily along the carpet, perking up as she seems to realize something. "Oh, wow -- the floor. I knew something felt different."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I can actually feel the carpet for the first time in, um -- wow, I've lost track." She sniffs at the air before turning to you. "Smells better in here, too. Did Bonnie spruce up?"
You cast a glance around the entirety of the apartment, chest swelling with pride as you gaze upon the fruit of your labor.
"N-no, not -- not exactly. I might've, uh, pitched in a bit and done some spring cleaning. ...in November."
Stretching a little, Goose cocks her head in your general direction. "I was gonna say, I'd have been surprised. She's not much of one for keeping our place, y'know..."
"Orderly?" you offer.
Laughing out loud, the orange hen reaches behind her head to adjust the throw pillow she's propped against. "I was going to say livable, but I think yours sounds better."
Considering what a disaster zone it was -- clumps of unread mail, piles of laundry, sacks overflowing with trash -- apartment 87-A wouldn't exactly make for a very hospitable or accessible place for a blind person to roam. You're imagining Goose stumbling over junk trying to get to anywhere she'd need to go within the apartment, and suddenly your cheeks begin to burn with righteous indignation. Bonbon and the others are way past innocent irresponsibility and are instead straight-up neglecting the needs of their fellow housemate.
At this point, it's bordering on cruelty.
"Is it always like that here?" you ask quietly. She notices the shift in your tone, and her own smile falters.
"Not -- you know, it's not so bad." She's obviously attempting damage control to cover for her friends. "Bonnie's a good roommate, she just stays so busy taking care of everything here. Gotta keep them plates spinning."
"Busy. Right."
Yeah, Bonbon's busy. Every day she's got a full schedule of playing and watching cartoons, while her roommates are preoccupied with the mission-critical tasks of napping and finger painting.
Catching yourself, you raise a hand to your forehead, exhaling deeply as you will yourself to not lose your temper.
You've only been here for less than a day and they are doing you a favor, regardless of the fact that it was unsolicited. You're in no position to pass railing judgment on these folks. For all you know, Bonbon and company really do have a very good excuse for letting their household fall apart around them, all the while their disabled friend suffers in silence.
You can't possibly think of what such an excuse might be, but you acknowledge the fact that it could exist. Hypothetically speaking. Maybe.
"Yeah, exactly," Goose says, seemingly content that you're not going to press the issue. "So like, that's super big of you to just come in and get started helping out. I know I appreciate it."
"It's my pleasure," you politely return. "Glad I could be of some use. Um, I'll be here for a few days while the whole, y'know, tenant overflow situation gets straightened out upstairs."
"Sounds like fun. Whose room are you staying in while you're here?"
"Oh, uh, I'm staying with Peanut." You scratch your head, trying to figure out why she'd even bother asking such a question. Clucking slightly as she reclines, Goose's beak twists into a saucy smile. Uh oh. You can feel this one coming.
"Well, that's very progressive of you to sleep with another guy, Mike," she says coolly, closing her eyes and tucking her wings across her stomach.
Aaaand there it is.
You're halfway through thinking up a counter-zinger when a noise like a wood chipper malfunctioning tears through the quiet of the apartment, causing you to nearly leap out of your seat in a panic. Goose, on the other hand, doesn't so much as twitch.
"What the hell was that?!" you blurt, looking around in bewilderment.
"Oh, did I mention that when he's in a real deep sleep, he snores?" She giggles a little. "I mean, it's kinda cute once you get used to it."
That was a snore?!
How did you never hear that during your stay overhead? Casting a hesitant look in the direction of Peanut's room, you swallow nervously. They say you don't appreciate what you've got until you lose it. Compared to whatever's waiting for you behind that door, Fred's cramped office seems like the executive suite at a five-star hotel.
"Well, I guess I'd better get some sleep." Rubbing your achy sides, you slowly slide out of the chair and onto your feet. "Will you be all right out here by yourself?"
"Sure. I'm just gonna chill out -- it's nice to have some 'me time' if you know what I mean," she says. "Have a good night, Mike."
Nodding mostly to yourself, you gently pat one of her wings as you pass by on your way to Peanut's room.
"Thanks, Goose. Take it easy."
"Morning, Mike! How did you sleep?" Bonbon asks as she fiddles with the coffee maker. "I trust you're all good and well-rested?"
For once, you're not up at six on the dot; it's half past ten as you tumble into your seat at the breakfast table. You gaze over at an oblivious Peanut mindlessly chewing through his cereal. He looks up, sees you staring, and gives you a timid smile and wave before resuming his breakfast. All you can muster up is a grunt in response.
Your first night's stay in Peanut's room was... interesting.
At least Bonbon wasn't lying when she said you'd have your own bed. Fortunately for you, Peanut also has a set of bunk beds similar to Frederick's setup -- unfortunately for you, he was already asleep in the top bunk, having apparently gotten home from work while you were trapped in laundry purgatory. You spent the majority of the night alternating between worrying about the creaking noises the bed frame was making as it struggled under his weight, and being jolted awake by his chainsaw snoring every so often.
"Good to hear!" Bonbon obliviously burbles, pulling a set of mismatched mugs out of the cupboards. "Oooohhh! I almost forgot to tell you. Fred called this morning and wanted to let you know he'd be right on time for your lunch appointment!"
"Oh, you're goin' to have lunch with the big bear?" Peanut whispers, awed. "That's so cool. Where are you guys going?"
"Couldn't tell you," you mutter as you accept your coffee from Bonbon.
Looking down at the contents of the cup, it's full of what appears to be milk with maybe just a teaspoon or two of coffee for color. Taking a sip, you feel your face contorting against your will. Correction: half milk, half sugar.
"Fixed it just the way I like mine! Bottoms up!" Bonbon grins as she plops into her own chair. You watch with an awkward grimace as she chugs her mug full of fauxfee.
"So, Peanut -- you're up a little earlier than yesterday," you comment. "How was work? Did they give you a hard time for showing up late?"
"Nah, I got off easy," Peanut replies bashfully, smiling at you from behind his cereal bowl. "Mr. Fazbear sorted things out for me. Well, I guess you did, actually. Um, thanks for taking care of that."
"No pair of socks is worth losing your job over," you reply with a tired smile of your own, lifting your mug of sugary cream in a mock toast. "Speaking of which..."
You trail off as you look around the room, noticing that little messes are already beginning to pile up here and there -- discarded clothes, more unopened mail, a half-full garbage bag nestled next to the television set. It's like they have no interest in maintenance whatsoever.
"Lemme just stop you there, Mike," Bonbon says with a completely serious expression, holding up a paw. "I already know what you're gonna ask -- and the answer is yes, I've got plenty of shows to keep us entertained after we're done with the first season of Legend of Bob. There are a few fansubbed episodes of season two airing right now, and man, let me just tell you, the first episode's a REAL shocker! The new season's off to a bang already!"
Shaking your head, you set your sugar milk aside. Her making the mental leap from Peanut's socks to Legend of Bob shows just where her priorities lie.
"Not quite what I had in mind -- nnngh!" You wince at a sudden shooting pain in your chest. Placing a hand on your side, you force a pained smile; you can't wait for lunch so you can take another round of painkillers. If this is how Cheeky feels every day, you feel even sorrier for her. "I was just going to mention that I did most of the laundry last night, but you guys are going to have to collect your clothes yourselves since I wasn't quite sure of who owned what."
"Oh, that won't be a problem at all, Mike!" Bonbon enthuses. "We'll prolly just shop out of the baskets for whatever we need."
Ah, of course. That's clearly the easier (and far less responsible) option. You're not even sure why you expected otherwise.
A sing-song, flighty voice from down the hallway announces the arrival of Mango. "Mike! Good morning," she titters, waddling out of her room and into the hall. She's wrapped in a heavy blanket, which she's clutching to her chest with one paw, while carrying a box of craft supplies in the other. "I'm glad you're finally awake! I need you for just a few moments if you can spare some... personal time?"
"Sure, why not," you return. "What do you need me for?"
"Well, Foxglove is having some difficulty with where your costume and props merge -- bless the little idiot's dried-up heart, at least now we all know who slept through Armscyes 101." Mango clicks her tongue in a condescending manner. "Basically, I need to borrow your arm to make a mockup so that I don't have to spend the rest of the day arguing with a certain someone over measurements."
As she settles down into her chair next to you, Mango drops her supply box onto the table's surface, producing a patchy roll of felt.
"Felt? Is this what the prop will be made out of?" you ask as she begins wrapping it around your arm. Curious, you pinch a portion of it between your thumb and index finger to get a feel for the texture.
"Gosh, no," Mango replies as she leans in, pulling a few hatpins from her box. "Maybe some of the jointing might be fabric, but I plan on making the entire thing out of molded acrylic. This is just flexible material so we can get a rough idea of the size of the Bobulator."
Squinting, you try to figure out what the hell she's talking about. "The Bobula-- oohhh, that's the silver thing on his arm that doesn't seem to do anything, right?"
"Yet," Bonbon says with a cryptic smile. "But in episode three of--"
"Three! That reminds me!" Peanut excitedly interrupts. "It's Three for Three Thursday over at Candy's today! We should totally go get ice cream later tonight, Bonnie!"
Bonbon shakes her head in disgust. "Already? But you're so close to your goal weight for the week! You just need to lose fifteen pounds by Sunday! Ice cream would totally kick you out of keto."
"He's eating cereal," Mango interjects with a smile as she begins wrapping a strip of grey felt around your right forearm. "I'm pretty sure ketosis is long off the table."
"That's not true, Mangle," Peanut argues as he shovels another lump of 'Crispy-Sweet Marshmallow Party Poppers' into his mouth. "I just need to, you know, take a break from all the kale every once in a while."
Something sharp suddenly pinches your elbow, and you instinctively yelp in pain.
"Ow! Easy, Mango!"
"Sorry, my paws slipped," Mango frustratedly returns, yanking a straight pin out of your arm. She tugs the coarse fabric loose from your arm, sighing as a tiny dollop of blood begins to form around your elbow from where you were just punctured. "Oooh, it's not as bad as it looks. Just give me a minute here..."
"Sit tight, I'll go grab you a bandage, Mike." Bonbon hops up from her chair, scooting into the kitchen. While she's busy rummaging around in the cabinets for first aid supplies, the doorbell chimes. "Oh, that must be Fred!"
Bonbon quickly reverses course out of the kitchen, skipping down the hallway to answer the front door.
Sure enough, Fred Fazbear waits on the porch outside, dressed in formal wear. His usual porkpie has been swapped out for an elegant top hat, and accentuating his typical dress shirt is a black bow tie and a matching tailor-made silk vest, complete with a gold pocketwatch chain. If you didn't know better, you'd assume you were off to the opera instead of having lunch out.
Then again, nothing around here surprises you anymore -- you very well could be headed to the opera.
"Good morning." Fred waves politely to everyone inside, tipping his hat. Peanut instantly sets his cereal bowl down on the table, wiping his mouth on the back of his shirt sleeve.
"Mornin', sir," the smaller of the two bears calls out, suddenly all-business. His paws are clasped in front of his chest and his gaze is steeled, as if he's being interviewed for a job. "Thanks for, um, for the assistance yesterday."
"It's fine. Just don't make a habit of it," Fred says dismissively. "Mike, get your coat; we're going."
You nod apologetically to Mango. "Sorry, we'll finish this later. Hang in there -- I know Mangle can be a handful," you chuckle as you pull away from the shorter fox and head for the front door.
"Oh, it's fine. I'll figure something out," she replies with a good-natured sigh.
Grabbing your pills from the kitchen counter, you head for the front door coat rack to retrieve your jacket. As you're reaching for it, Bonbon hastily applies a children's bandage to your arm. You spare a glance at the cartoonish piece of adhesive she's plastered on you, raising an eyebrow at her.
"Hot pink hearts and smiley faces?"
"Pffft. You'll be fine, tough guy," she says with a toothy grin. "You boys have fun today, all right?"
"We will," Fred chuckles. "I'm all about fun. In fact, I'm practically the face of family fun."
With a sigh, you give the others a parting wave as you follow him outside. You'd be lying if you said you shared any of his optimism.
The sun's especially bright today, making for pleasant contrast with the chill of the late November cold. Fred's car is a far more comfortable ride as well, now that you're not crammed into the back of the vehicle. The front seats are soft and plush, far more gentle on your sore chest.
"So, Mike." Fred awkwardly tilts his head towards you while keeping his eyes on the road. "How are you fitting in?"
"Oh my god, I thought you'd never ask. I'm trapped in an apartment with Bonbon. Send help," you reply with a dry smile.
Clearly that must have struck him as humorous; he lets loose a bark of a laugh, a smirk flashing across his lips so quickly you almost question whether it was there at all.
"Seriously, they're not that bad," you continue, massaging your leg, "but you sure weren't kidding when you said their household was lacking in discipline."
"Sure. Peanut seems to handle guidance well, but he lacks ambition. Bonbon's the exact opposite. For as long as I've known her, I've never been able to tell her anything."
"Chiclet described them as 'free spirits'. Do you think that's a fair assessment?" you ask.
"More like a generous assessment," Fred replies without hesitation.
Considering the filthy state of the apartment when you arrived, for once, you have to agree Fred's not exaggerating or leaping to conclusions. Bonbon and the others are slobs. Lovable, friendly, comfy slobs, but slobs nonetheless. Their cozy, inviting atmosphere is a double-edged sword; without clear leadership or direction, nothing's ever going to get done.
Conversation peters off afterwards. Fred seems slightly preoccupied this morning, his expression distant as he skillfully navigates along back roads and winding lanes. Based on what little you know of the surrounding area, you're likely headed downtown. A knot begins to form in the pit of your stomach -- surely he wouldn't be taking you back there of all places, right? He wouldn't do that to you, would he?
"Fred, where are we going for lunch?" you ask, your voice strained.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Fred exhales deeply through his nose. He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
"You know what, I don't -- I don't think I'm up to going out today," you continue, an overwhelming feeling of restlessness taking hold of you. "Turn around and take me back, please."
"Settle down, Mike."
"What?! Settle down?! Fred, no! I'm not going back to Jeremy's!" You look up at him in shock, your expression that of a deer caught in the headlights. "Look, I've had it with that place! Take me back to Bonbon's, right now!"
Your pleas fall on deaf ears. Fred continues to drive on, pointedly ignoring you as the car weaves through a wooded section of town before turning onto the all-too familiar main street that leads to Jeremy's. Your heart's pumping overtime as the unwelcome yellow and purple marquee fades into view.
Instead of stopping on the street in front of the pizzeria like you're expecting him to, however, Fred continues on for now, sparing it only a passing glance.
Turning the corner, Fred parks the car in front of a small teahouse. As he shifts in his seat to face you, you're already bracing yourself for a glare and sharp words to put you in your place -- but against all expectations, he looks at you with the same placid features he had the other night when you bared your soul and let loose in front of his linen closet. He draws a deep breath, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he considers what he wants to say.
"This is... probably a better place to talk, now that I think about it," he says. "Quiet, out of the way. I'll go get us a table. Come on inside when you've stopped shaking."
Indeed, you hadn't even noticed, but your knees are knocking and you're gripping the door handle so hard that the plastic's showing signs of fatigue. Forcing yourself to calm down, you slowly open the passenger door and stumble out onto your feet, traipsing into the teahouse behind Fred.
It's dead as a doornail inside, which is good because there are maybe seven or eight tables in the entire restaurant. It's warm and comfortable, though, and anything's better than the alternative. The waitress, a mauve-furred, middle-aged vixen with caked-on makeup seats the two of you together at a table in the corner of the room, handing each of you a menu. As you read over the specials, you're inwardly glad Fred's treating; the price for appetizers alone is more than you'd spend on an entire dinner.
For two.
If he's bothered by the hefty price tags, however, he doesn't seem to show it. Out of courtesy to his wallet, you resolve to order whatever the cheapest thing is on the menu, regardless of how appealing it might actually sound. You can eat your fill later on your own dime.
Doffing his hat, Fred skims the menu before folding it up and placing it on the table.
"Sixteen ounce sirloin, medium-rare," he begins, rattling off a rapid-fire order to the waitress. "Loaded baked potato. Seasonal vegetables. And yes, I'm fine with the extra charge. My friend will have the same. Mike, how do you take your steak?"
You blink. So much for the cheapest thing on the menu. "Oh, no, Fred, I'm fine with just a salad, or--"
"No you're not," Fred gruffly interrupts. "You're a man and you're living with degenerates who eat only literal rabbit food. Tell the lady how you want your steak cooked."
Pressing the back of your hand to your forehead, you only just now realize the reason you're so warm is that the heater's on full blast in here and you haven't even taken your coat off. Oh, and also Fred just ordered you half a cow to eat.
"Medium-well?" you manage to reply as you strip off your jacket, laying it across the back of your chair. "Really, though, sixteen ounces is way too much steak, Fred."
"Fine. The eight ounce for him, then. Oh, and we'll have an order of the mussels in white wine sauce to start," Fred adds, smirking at you.
You're not even sure you know what mussels are, but you nod appreciatively. The vixen jots everything down in her notepad with a pleasant smile before retreating to the kitchen.
"Fred, I don't know what to say."
You feel vastly underdressed, sitting across from the bear in formal clothes ordering up an expensive lunch. Fred simply nods in response, taking his hat in his paws as the two of you relax at your table. He holds it for a long while, tracing his finger along the brim thoughtfully. It's not until your appetizer's served that he finally sets it aside on the seat of one of the unused chairs.
The two of you eat in silence. The mussels are delicious, albeit a little tricky to figure out at first; you could see Frederick preparing a fancy dish like this with ease. The steaks are served not long after, and you gratefully set to work polishing your plate off both out of hunger as well as a desire to not offend your benefactor.
Eventually, all that's left of both plates is a handful of crumbs. Satisfied, Fred reclines in his chair.
"Dessert?"
"Please, god, no," you chuckle. "I already feel like I've gained two full pants sizes."
Snorting, Fred settles the check with the server before clasping his paws in an imitation of Peanut's pose at the breakfast table. Actually, it's more likely Peanut was imitating Fred now that you think about it. The air's taken on a heavy tone, and after a couple of false starts, Fred finally seems to find the words he wants to say.
"He'd just finished college," Fred begins softly. "I was too busy with more... hedonistic pursuits to even consider higher education. Cares of the world, the stupidity of rebellious youth. Distractions."
Your expression turns somber as you listen to him speak; it's only when your chest begins to ache that you realize you've been holding in your breath in for fear of throwing him off of his stride. Exhaling gently, you lean in, paying rapt attention to whatever he has to say. This is a rare side of Fred Fazbear, and you don't intend to squander the opportunity.
"It was around summer, I think, when he and his business partner came into our parents' home to lay out their plan for a restaurant with an old-fashioned arcade, good food, and a stage for live music and performances." He laughs a raspy, dry laugh, and for a moment he looks decades older than he actually is. His eyebrows furrow upwards in a mix of recalled emotions. "The mascots would be added later on; my father's 401k wasn't a sizable enough loan to spring for such state-of-the-art equipment."
Stiffening, you realize what this means. Before you can give voice to inquiry, though, Fred presses on.
"My brother put his heart and his soul into building that pizzeria from the ground up. Some of our mutual friends -- even a few faces you'd know -- were part of the operation from as far back as seeing the ground broken and the foundation poured."
Your sinuses are beginning to burn -- reaching up to your face, you realize your eyes are starting to water.
"A family business," you murmur. No wonder damn near everyone you've met has worked there.
"In the truest sense of the words." Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Fred sighs. "Listen -- I asked you to lunch for two reasons, Mike. The first of which was to apologize to you for asking you to exit my home."
"Fred--"
"Let me finish," he interrupts. "You did my household -- no, my family a service. You were not asked, but you rose to the occasion and put your wellbeing on the line for someone who wasn't your own. And in your hour of need, when it came time to return the favor, I threw you out on your ass. Believe me when I say that all of my housemates had strong words for me yesterday morning."
Even Rackham came to your defense?
You maintain a neutral expression, but internally you wish you could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Beanie and Chichi sticking up for you isn't too surprising, but the idea of Fred being outnumbered three-to-one is an amusing and also frightening thought.
Coughing awkwardly, he extends his paw to you. "No lunch can repay what you did for Bonnie. I've never in my life misjudged the character of a man's heart as badly as I did with you. For that and more, I'm sorry, Mike."
You extend your hand across the table, grasping his paw and shaking it firmly.
"I've got a lot to be sorry about, myself. I wasn't in a good place mentally, and I inadvertently stirred a lot of shit up that you'd just as soon have left alone. Besides, you still took in a stranger into your home -- and for all you know I could have been a threat. So we're a little more even than you might think."
"I appreciate you being gracious about it." Fred nods his head toward you as the two of you break contact. "The second reason I called you here today is what I'd started to mention when we were on the phone last night. I do want to show you something."
Warily, he gauges your face, and you remain silent.
"It's... it's important to me that you see the business that my brother built, as it was intended to be seen."
Gazing down the street, you swallow; suddenly your food feels like it might be ready to come back up.
"I'm not ready to go back, Fred," you hoarsely whisper. It's an appeal from primal fear; more of an entreaty than an actual statement.
"And you never will be," Fred says simply. "But I've watched too many good people -- friends and family alike -- fall victim to this imaginary curse that hangs over our family's work. Jeremy Human's pizzeria, for better or for worse, is Goldie's legacy. It's too late for Bonworth and Faz, but it's not too late for you, Mike."
Standing up from the table, Fred collects his hat and places it upon his head, leaving a generous sum of cash behind as a tip. You shakily push yourself to your legs, retrieving your coat from the back of your chair as you follow Fred to his car.
"I'll be with you every step of the way, Mike," Fred says, opening the door to his car. "And if you're still too uncomfortable, then I'll have someone come pick you up and escort you home. But you are going to go conquer your fears. Do you understand?"
"Yeah," you glumly respond, looking down the street. "Let's go get this over with."
"There, that's the spirit."