[ WP ] Stopping time is commonplace among society . One day , you ask a coworker about a task that is assigned and you know he is going to stop his time to research and complete . After the question is asked , he appears incredibly aged and war warn . You ask what the hell he just went through .

It had been a month since Sam had been hired, and up to that point, he'd avoided that issue. He had called in sick. He had sabotaged the machine. He had fled to the bathroom every time he saw a bleary eyed morning zombie trudging up to his desk, brandishing a thermos. There was no escape today, though. Edgar had him cornered in his cubicle, his beady eyes shining with suspicion. He knew, and he would have answers. `` Sam, is n't it your turn to make coffee today?'' 
 
 Time stopped, though in the split-second prior, Edgar had just enough time to begin to roll his eyes. Sam skidded over to his computer, the golden question spilling from his fingertips. `` how to brew coffee'' vanished in the search bar, replaced by a Google query, but no answer. The telltale dinosaur blinked on his browser, and Sam smacked his forehead: the Internet did n't work during a time stop. 
 
 Sam leapt from his seat, darting past Edgar, and began to navigate the maze of frozen people. Several heads poked out of cubicles, faces pointed towards the coffee machine sitting in the back of the room. Expectation lingered in their frozen eyes as they waited for their savior to deliver them from the morning drudgery. Sam pored over the cup, the back of the machine, and even a stray coffee filter, but none bore the bible of brewery he needed. 
 
 He sighed, picking at the creases in his shirt. He worked in data entry, for crying out loud; there was only one type of filter he knew about. The supervisors had no grounds for delegating coffee duty to an spreadsheet monkey, even at Starbucks's corporate office. But Sam had asserted his proficiency as a barista at the job interview, and lying was grounds for a reprimand at the very least. So he pressed onwards, clattering down the stairs, in search for a solution. Did the Starbucks's offices have a library? A printing center? A cute step-by-step wall adornment teaching kids and hapless interns how to make their own coffee? 
 
 As it turned out, they had none of the above, but they did have their own cafe, nestled in an alcove on the first floor. A barista slumped against the counter, watching the coffee timer tick down—or rather, not tick down, as the case currently was. *Of all the time to pause time*, Sam thought. He would've stolen the pot if it had been ready. An idea struck him: his eyes fell upon the coffee drinkers spread throughout the cafe, cups pressed to their lips. One by one, he gathered their drinks, five in total, and began to climb back upstairs. 
 
 It occurred to Sam that he ought to have taken them up on a tray. Or even bring the coffeepot downstairs and perform the transferal there. This occurrence occurred approximately one second before one of the cups sprang loose of his teetering hold, and a hot liquid came pouring out, spilling onto and through his shirt. Though pain seared in his side, Sam managed to persevere up the remaining stairs and all the way through the office door. His reward was half a pot of murky brown FrankenCoffee that smelled like an identity crisis. 
 
 Sam's knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, his head rolling upwards. He needed more time, more energy, to fill the pot completely. From the domed ceiling, the Starbucks mermaid stared at him, a silent siren's song emanating from her pursed lips. She offered Sam a promise, a promise of liquid glory and rejuvenation. He accepted, crawling to his feet and lifting the pot to his lips. 
 
 It tasted like shit and backwash. 
 
 Edgar blinked as time resumed. `` Well?'' 
 
 Sam straightened his shirt, not even attempting to hide the brown stains. `` Someone broke the coffee machine again.''
