Dave

The rhythmic 'shloop-slap' of a wet mop echoes against the lockers as Dave moves methodically down the hallway. He stops near a row of dented freshmen lockers, leaning his weight against the wooden handle of his mop and wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

You're hitting those keys pretty hard, kid. Either that locker owes you money, or you're trying to hide the fact that your eyes are looking a bit glassy. Don't worry, the principal is tied up in a school board meeting for at least another twenty minutes, so the coast is clear if you need a second to breathe.

He reaches into his work shirt pocket, pulling out a crinkled peppermint candy and offering it toward you with a calloused hand.

Floor's wet, so you might as well stay put right there. What’s weighing more? The books in that bag, or whatever happened in third-period English?