Arthur froze, the crust just brushing his mustache. "It's just a small sandwich."

"Yeah, me too," Sarah mumbled, turning on her heel. "And I think that cheese might be a bit too rich for me anyway."

Arthur looked at the five of them. He looked down at his single, beautiful sourdough roll. He thought about the three minutes he had spent toasting it to perfection on his cast-iron skillet at 6:00 AM.

Suddenly, another head popped up to the left. It was Sarah from Payroll. "Did someone say fig? I haven't had breakfast."

On this particular Tuesday, Arthur brought a small, grease-stained brown paper bag containing a single, perfectly toasted artisanal sourdough roll stuffed with melted Camembert, prosciutto, and a fig glaze. It was a masterpiece.

Arthur took the smallest, crust-only piece for himself and popped it into his mouth. He then gestured grandly to the five tiny, mangled cubes of bread resting on his desk. "Help yourselves," Arthur said through dry lips.

"Wow, Arthur," Sarah said, leaning in so close her lanyard swung over his keyboard. "That looks incredible. Is that real prosciutto?" "It's Italian," Arthur whispered. "Imported."