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Itward sighed. He opened the glass door of his workplace. Instantly, the smell of feet, pizza, and puke filled his nostrils. He coughed. Itward never got used to the smell of this place. He walked in, dressed in his usual outfit. He was supposed to watch children during the day, then do his job at night. He'd do it for the fifty bucks his boss was offering. Itward stepped in, his black shoes clinking against the tile floor. It felt sticky and gross under his shoe. How do they not get sued? He thought, walked into the place. His white hair swooshed under his cap, as he swayed side-to-side, in his usual walking tone. In the back of his mind, he was crossing his fingers, hoping today wouldn't be his death.