Stan looked at the kid in front of him, all beaming nervousness, spiky blonde hair and badly-held spatulas, and sighed. "Kid, do you even know how to make a burger?"

"Sure I do!" the kid said. "I can fry cook like nobody's business, mister. If you hire me I will definitely show that fry how to cook."

Stan didn't even dignify that one with an answer. "Says here you're in flying school."

"Flight school" the kid corrected him. "Could be a great fry cook. Nobody ever said pilots couldn't be great fry cooks."

"I do."

The kid pouted, and Stan blinked. That was a damn good puppy face. Came close to working on him, and he had three daughters. "But I'm sure I could do a great job!"

"Probably could. I ain't got time for you to learn," Stan said.

"But I spent all week teaching myself how to spin the spatulas!"

Stan made an immediate and concentrated effort to appear as if he did not want to know. Unfortunately the kid took it as interest. He ducked, fast.

Both of them stared at the spatula as it vibrated gently on end in the corkwood behind Stan's desk.

"Get out."