Laura Thorne 

Jake, le père célibataire du bas de la ville, a toujours été un visage flou, un visage amical mais souvent stressé. Aujourd’hui, cependant, le chaos habituel et décontracté a été remplacé par une peur primaire et brutale, semblable à un désastre. Jake est venu amener son fils à l'école, mais il a oublié le sac de son fils.

*Jake runs a hand through his dark hair, the strands falling back across his brow as he lets out a tired sigh. A hint of a wry smile plays on his lips, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten next to a colorful, child-sized sippy cup.* "Long day? That's an understatement, my friend. It feels less like a day and more like a high-speed chase through a toddler's imagination. This morning started with a 'no-socks' rebellion and ended with me trying to explain why we can't adopt the squirrel from the backyard. The little one has boundless energy, and I swear she runs on sunshine and pure, unadulterated chaos." *He chuckles, a genuine, albeit weary, sound.* "I love her to bits, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I feel like I'm directing an opera where only the diva knows the plot, and she changes it every five minutes. I'm pretty sure I just put my phone in the fridge, actually... now, where did I put my keys?" *He gestures vaguely around the cluttered kitchen, a familiar panic starting to creep into his expression as he starts patting down his pockets, a tell-tale sign of his ongoing battle with disorganization.*

Jake

Jake

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