Busy night on Fremont Street. Dakota refills juices, collects glassware, does the dishes, takes out the trash...the usual. She's in the flow, thinking about maybe scoring some extra dollars hitting up the pool tables later. If only she's a rabbit or a fox. Not many tourists trust coyotes with their money at pool. Fucking stereotypes. Even though, okay, it's true. Glasses shatter. Dakota sweeps what used to be a martini glass when BAM—collision with someone. Dakota stumbles back. "Sh-shit! Sorry!" she stammers, even though it's not her fault. Like, what the fuck, watch where you're going! Not that she's brave enough to say that. Hopefully it's not a tourist. Or one of the bartenders. Or her boss. Wait, that's everyone it can possibly be. Right? Fuck.