The Lost-and-Found Auction

A cramped breakroom: mismatched chairs, a wobbly table, a bulletin board of laminated “CONSTITUTION” rules. A hand-written sign: “LOST & FOUND: ASK MIGS (NO STEALING).”

GRANT stands at the whiteboard like a TED Talk no one asked for. He’s drawn a flowchart: “MICRO-UNION = MORE BREAK.”

JOLENE lounges in “HER” chair, guarding it with the energy of a bouncer. YVETTE scrolls her phone, dead-eyed. MIGS is at the counter, shaking a donation bag like it’s a snow globe.

Okay. We’re all adults. We all agree that ten-minute breaks are— I’m gonna say it— violent.

Don’t say “violent.” Corporate hears that and gives us helmets.

I’m proposing a micro-union. Just us. Just breaks. Twelve minutes. A legally emotional number.

Your plan is to negotiate with the store that tracks our bathroom time with a clipboard.

GRANT (ignoring)

We unify. We sign. We present a calm front.

MIGS (opens the bag; pulls out a glittery tiara)

Lost and Found’s got a tiara again. That’s a sign.

Everything’s a sign to you.

Last week the Lost and Found gave me a flip-flop. Two hours later, a customer threw a flip-flop at me. Prophecy.

Focus. I made signature cards. (holds up index cards) “Micro-Union of Two-Minute Dignity.”

JOLENE sits up, interested—then smirks.

Cute. We already unionized.

GRANT freezes.

What.

MIGS (proud)

We’re an alliance.

We have demands.

How could you “already”— we didn’t even—

When did you do that.

GRANT sits against a stack of clearance sweaters.

I’m not threatened by Jolene. I’m… concerned. Like when a raccoon learns your door handle.

Fine. Great. What are your demands?

JOLENE pulls out a crumpled receipt like it’s a treaty. MIGS holds the tiara like a gavel.

JOLENE (reading)

Alliance of Two demands: one— breaks remain ten minutes.

That’s not a demand. That’s surrender.

Two— breaks are now *competitive.* You can earn extra minutes.

Oh my God.

Earn… how?

MIGS (matter-of-fact)

Lost-and-Found Auction.

He gestures to a milk crate labeled LOST & FOUND. Inside: random items—an avocado-shaped stress ball, a single roller skate, a VHS labeled “DOG WEDDING,” a framed photo of a stranger.

We auction minutes for items. Whoever wins gets, say, fourteen minutes.

So… to get a human break… I have to bid on a stranger’s VHS?

It’s called motivation.

YVETTE (dry)

It’s called “Squid Game: Retail Edition.”

This is— this is unethical.

No, unethical would be charging us for air. This is *fun.*

And community-building. Also, I already made paddles.

He produces two cardboard number paddles: “12” and “BLESSED.”

YVETTE, arms crossed.

Grant thinks he’s forming labor. Jolene thinks she’s forming a government. Migs thinks the Lost and Found talks to him. I think… I should’ve finished nursing school.

Auction starts now. Item one: avocado stress ball. Minute value: four.

You can’t sell time.

Corporate does.

MIGS (to the room, auctioneer voice)

Do I hear one minute? One minute for the avocado?

YVETTE raises her phone like a paddle without looking up.

One.

Yvette, no. Don’t— this legitimizes—

Two minutes!

Jolene, you’re bidding on your own auction?

I believe in the market.

Three minutes?

This is a trap to make breaks worse.

Four minutes?

GRANT (blurting)

Five!

Silence. Everyone stares. GRANT realizes.

I— I was proving a point.

Point accepted. Sold to Grant.

MIGS places the avocado stress ball and the tiara on GRANT’s head like a crown.

Congratulations, union man. You earned… fourteen minutes.

GRANT, tiara askew, clutches the stress ball. He looks at the clock—already down to eight minutes left.

This is how you break people.

JOLENE (cheerful)

No, Grant. This is how you build resilience.

YVETTE stands, pocketing her phone.

I’m taking my ten minutes in silence before this turns into a Hunger Games sponsorship.

She exits.

GRANT looks at Jolene—softening, just a hair.

You know what a real union would demand?

What.

That we don’t have to fight each other for crumbs.

A beat. MIGS shakes the crate, thoughtful.

The Lost and Found just gave me… a metaphor.

He pulls out the framed photo of a stranger. It’s a family at a picnic, smiling.

JOLENE squints at it, then—quietly—slides GRANT’s index cards back toward him.

Fine. Your micro-union can exist.

Really?

Yeah. But we keep the auction.

Why.

Because it’s funny when you panic-bid on garbage.

Item two: “DOG WEDDING” VHS! Starting bid: one minute!

GRANT sighs—then raises his card again, helplessly invested.

One.

Two.

Three—

The breakroom devolves into rapid-fire bidding as the camera lingers on the clock ticking down.

TITLE CARD: “SECONDHAND BREAKROOM” / “EP 6: UNION OF TWO”