At four, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton gather all the other employees in the shop, and during a hair-curlingly embarrassing speech, present me with a check for three hundred dollars. In that moment, three weeks of exams, graduation, intense, fucked-up billionaires, deflowering, hard and soft limits, playrooms with no consoles, helicopter rides, and the fact that I will move tomorrow, all well up inside me. Amazingly, I hold myself together. My subconscious is in awe. I hug the Claytons hard. They have been kind and generous employers, and I will miss them.