Pancake Man wanted to be the best breakfast at the Canada Day feast, and today he had a real chance. He was thin and golden, with syrup and butter dripping from his edges. He waved his short arms at the crowd on the cookhouse porch. "Look! I'm breakfast! Real maple syrup, real butter!" But nobody looked twice. A man stepped right over him. A child mistook him for a spill and reached for a napkin. The cookhouse smelled of hot batter. People filled their paper plates and sat at tables. Pancake Man had no plate. He had no table. He sat flat on the wooden floor, and the crowd stepped around him like he was a mess to clean. He understood the problem. Food on the floor was garbage. Food on a plate was a meal. To be taken seriously, he needed to sit high, framed, and shining. He needed something fancy. He crawled behind the serving counter on his short legs. Pots hung above him. Jars lined the shelves. Then he spotted it on a low shelf. A silver platter. Its surface was polished bright, its edges softly curved. Light bounced off it and threw colored sparks across the wall. That was his stage. But the platter sat higher than his head. Pancake Man stretched his arms. He could not reach. He backed up and jumped. His syrup-slick body slid down the shelf and slapped the floor. He tried again and slid again. He stopped and thought. His syrup was the problem. But syrup was also sticky. He pressed one dripping hand against the shelf's wooden leg. It held. He pressed the other hand higher. Sticky palm by sticky palm, he climbed. Butter smeared under him. His arms shook. His feet found a jar and pushed off. He flopped onto the platter with a wet slap. The silver was cool and smooth beneath him. He spread his thin body out and pushed himself to the center. He straightened his arms and legs. Syrup pooled around him in a shining ring. The polished surface lifted his golden color and made it glow. Now he looked like breakfast. A server reached behind the counter for a clean platter to carry out to the feast. Her fingers closed on the edges of his. She lifted him high without noticing what sat on top. People turned to look as the platter came through the crowd. "Now that's a pancake," a woman said. A child pointed and grinned. For the first time all morning, the crowd saw a meal, not a mess. The server carried him toward the longest table, where the biggest crowd waited with empty plates and hungry eyes. She set the platter down in the center. Forks lifted around him. Pancake Man had his stage at last. He also had nowhere left to run.