Tip

Max supposed it was some sort of poetic justice. Every time he went out to eat, he rarely left more than a 12% tip. He knew it was cheap, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave a cent more. He was about to pay the bill on a meal when the Great Shift hit and his body was swapped with a waitress.

In the weeks that followed, people’s real identities were being sorted out. As a result, Max didn’t have access to his finances or any other part of his life. In the interim, he still needed cash. As a result, he had to pick up the job of the body he had, which meant for the time being, he was a waitress.

He wasn’t particularly good at it, and his tips soon reflected that. In fact, even on his good days, his best tables would rarely give him more than 15%. It all seemed fitting, he supposed. He just couldn’t wait for this to all be sorted out, and for him to no longer have to sort tables.