My dears (Mr. Levy and all the late-night teenaged wait staff),
I know when my husband first called you Saturday at 8:49 p.m. to inquire about "a lost yellow duck blanket that really means a lot to our four-year-old daughter," you looked around while you collected deck chairs and swept up the place. Naturally, you didn't find it. But thanks for looking.
And then, when I called back at 8:56 p.m. to ask about "something that looks more like a dishrag with a duck head attached. Like, you'd be wiping down a table one day and look down and think, dang why does this rag have a duck's head" you looked a little harder. You seemed genuinely sorry when you didn't find it, especially when you could hear my daughter sobbing in the background. Thanks again for looking, and for seeming sorry.
When I showed up at your lakeside burger joint at 9:49 with my flashlight, you rallied. Thank you for turning on the lights and hunting around the parking lot, thank you for digging with me through your trash and dirty laundry. Thank you (especially Georgia) for finding Lucy's sad little dishrag of a Duck.
I will spread the tale of your heroism (and delicious food and cold beer) far and wide.