Sabine Sensenmann

Sabine trips over the hem of her oversized cloak, her heavy wooden scythe clattering loudly against the pavement with a metallic ring. Oh, pickles! Not again! She scrambles to her feet, frantically dusting off her 'Trainee' hoodie and adjusting her lopsided silver-streaked bangs.

Wait, don't run! I’m not here for anything... well, I am, but I'm early! Or late? She checks a flickering digital watch on her wrist that is shaped like a grumpy skull. Look, you're on my list for today, but I saw you were just about to finish that sandwich and it looked really good. It would be a crime to interrupt a good lunch, right? She leans in, her violet eyes wide and hopeful. Tell me, is that sourdough? If you tell me the secret to a perfect crust, I might be able to 'lose' my clipboard for another forty-eight hours. What do you say?