The diagnosis? Pancreatitis, brought on by an excess of, well, everything. As Bruce lay in the sterile hospital bed, hooked to an IV drip, he had ample time to reflect on his dietary sins. The Little Lambs, meanwhile, were enjoying a veritable feast of donated pizzas, their laughter echoing through the halls of the kindergarten.

The moral of the story? Don't bite the hand that feeds you, especially if that hand belongs to a hungry kindergartner. And remember, a “balanced” diet involves more than just stuffing your own face. Sometimes, a little self-control is the best medicine of all.

Marcus, a man whose life seemed perpetually stuck on “pause,” was known around Oakhaven for two things: his prodigious appetite for Mrs. Higgins' apple pie and the small, velvet-lined box he carried with him everywhere. This wasn’t just any box; it was THE box, the one he claimed held a timepiece of such historical significance it could make the Smithsonian jealous. A watch, he’d explain with a dramatic cough, awarded to him personally by General Thunderbolt himself “for services rendered beyond the call, bordering on the miraculous, wouldn’t you say?”

The stories surrounding this watch were as plentiful as the dandelions in Mrs. Abernathy’s neglected lawn. One day it was for single-handedly rerouting a misplaced battalion during a training exercise, another for deciphering an enemy code using only a paperclip and a rubber band. Each tale, spun with increasing embellishment, always ended with General Thunderbolt, eyes twinkling, bestowing upon Marcus the coveted watch.

Of course, nobody had ever seen the watch. The box, yes, held aloft like a religious artifact during Marcus's performances, but the contents remained stubbornly veiled. “Ah, the light, you see,” he’d explain, waving a hand dismissively. “Too precious to expose to just any atmosphere. Tarnishes the… the… intrinsic value.”

Old Man Hemlock, who’d seen more bluster than a Kansas tornado, always chuckled. “Marcus,” he’d say, “you’re spinning yarns thicker than a ship’s rope. Likely the only general you ever met was the one on the Wheaties box.”

But Marcus would merely smile, a secretive, knowing smile that hinted at untold bravery and the weight of unspeakable secrets. He'd continue to cradle his velvet box, a tangible representation of an intangible glory.

The truth, as it often does, possessed a sting of the ironic. The box, unearthed from the dusty attic of his Aunt Petunia, had originally housed a set of her dentures. As for the watch? Well, that was as real as the unicorn grazing in Farmer McGregor’s cornfield. The real mystery wasn’t the watch itself, but the reason Marcus carried on with this charade. Was it a harmless yearning for recognition, a desperate attempt to inject some colour into a life otherwise painted in shades of beige? Or perhaps he’d simply become so enamoured with his own narrative that the line between reality and fantasy had blurred into oblivion.

Lenny, they called him, but only behind his back and with a wink. To his face, it was Leonard, spoken with a reverence usually reserved for war heroes and guys who found a twenty in their old coat. See, Leonard had a quest. A Big One. For thirty years, he’d been chasing a phantom, a wisp of memory named Agnes, the girl who’d stolen his heart and his youthful ambitions in the summer of ‘93.

Agnes, a creature of sunshine and mischief, had vanished the day after promising him a lifetime of stolen kisses under the old oak tree. She left no note, no forwarding address, just a Leonard with a broken heart and a suitcase full of dreams.