I should transfer it to the molds.
I should wipe down the station.
I should do the seven other things on the list I keep on a sticky note next to the sink, each item written small and tight because the note is running out of room the way everything in my life is running out of room.
Instead, I rinse my wine glass, put the plastic wrap over the bowl, and turn off the studio lights.
Five-thirty is going to come for me like a freight train, and I’m going to meet it the way I meet everything: upright, caffeinated, and barely held together by an array of heating pads.
Three to five business days.
I can wait.
Chapter 2
Three to Five Business Days
Maisie
Three days later,I’m elbow-deep in a batch of rosemary-oat bars and arguing with a kitchen timer that I swear is making time move slower when I hear a truck.
The sound registers in the back of my mind the way most things do during production hours: as a minor disturbance inthe atmosphere.
It’s filed behinddon’t let the lye water overheatandyou forgot to label the curing rack againandyour left shoulder is making that clicking noise, maybe deal with that sometime this century.
I’ve got soap dust in my hair, shea butter crusted under my fingernails, and an apron that looks like I lost a fight with the craft store clearance aisle.
The truck’s the least of my concerns.
Except the truck is getting louder.
And closer.
And it’s turning off the main road onto Coyote Springs, which means it’s either lost or coming for me, because there are exactly three properties out here and the others never get big deliveries.
There’s Mrs. Pritchett, who collects ‘55 Chevys in varying states of decay and calls it yard art. Online shopping is still witchcraft to her.
Then there’s Gary, who orders cat food in bulk and looks after Gram’s three alpacas when she’s up north for the summer. His catfood deliveries always come like clockwork every first of the month.
Nope.
The truck is coming for me.
I set down my spatula, wipe my hands on the one clean patch of apron I have left, and walk to the studio window.
A brown delivery truck is grinding its way up my dirt road in a cloud of pale dust.
Oh.
It’sthat.
I’d almost forgotten about the purchase.
Almost.
I forgot it in the way you almost forget about a text you sent at 2 a.m. to someone you shouldn’t have, where “almost” means you remembered it with full-body clarity the very next morning as you stared at the ceiling for forty-five seconds, then got up and made coffee and poured an entire day of work on top of it like concrete over a time capsule.
I remember it now.
