Another lousy tip, another fight with a cook, another aching heel blister—whatever was the last straw, Ricki had enough. She tore off her waist apron, threw it to the ground and shouted an expletive-laden resignation to her unsurprised coworkers.
Enraged yet invigorated, she bee-lined for the front doors, threw them open and stepped onto the parking lot asphalt as a free woman. In one fluid motion, she pulled off her name tag, threw it to the ground and jumped into a black ’89 Iroc-Z. The engine roared, the tires squealed and the last we ever saw of Ricki was her finger salute from the passenger window.
Don’t go, Ricki. Not like this.