Thousands, that’s how many bags of f*****g candy floss I have produced in the last four hours. I’ve got sugar in my hair, my hands are sticky, I’m pretty sure I have a blister coming from those bloody sticks, and Travis has finally, grudgingly, decided that I can leave his station.
I step out from behind the table, and into the light crowd that is still milling around the large hall, heading toward the doorway that will lead through to the kitchen where volunteers can get a drink for free.
I step through the door into the small, dark, hallway, the door closing behind me with a heavy thud that cuts off the sounds from outside. I walk down the narrow, empty hallway toward the end where I know the kitchen area is. As I pass one of the closed doors that line the wall beside me, it opens, a h
