I keep rolling because stopping would look like guilt. “Some of the dock crews got their hours cut again.”
“Sweetheart, half this neighborhood has had hours cut, wages cut, power cut, water cut, and common sense cut out at birth. You cannot cinnamon-roll your way through systemic economic collapse.”
“Maybe not, but I can cinnamon-roll someone through breakfast.”
Darlene stares at me for a long moment through the thin trail of smoke curling from her fingers. Her face is a map of fine lines,sharp cheekbones, and narrowed suspicion. She has worked at Sweet Tooth since my mother was younger than I am now, which means she has earned the right to judge me before sunrise.
Finally she says, “Your grandmother was exactly this dumb.”
I smile despite myself. “Thank you.”
“That was not praise.”
“It sounded affectionate.”
“Get your ears checked.”
She stubs the cigarette into the sand jar by the back door, which technically means she has obeyed the sign before the health inspectors can rise from their crypt and smite us. Then she washes her hands and starts on the lunch prep without being asked. Darlene acts like kindness is a rash she keeps meaning to get treated, but she has never once let me open alone on a hard morning.
By six fifteen, the first cinnamon rolls come out glazed and shining, the coffee urns gurgle with rich bitterness, and the front windows fog at the edges from the warmth inside. I unlock the front door at six thirty, and Halo comes in hungry.
Mr. Eddison is first, same as most mornings. He used to work loading orbital freight until his knees gave out and the company decided loyalty was less valuable than cheap replacement joints. He wears a brown cap pulled low and smells like rain, machine oil, and the medicated cream he pretends he does not need.
“Morning, Evie,” he says, stomping damp from his boots onto the mat.
“Morning, trouble. Coffee and two rolls?”
“One roll.”
“Two rolls,” I say, already boxing them.
“I said one.”
“I heard you. I disagreed.”
He gives me a look. “You keep this up, you’ll end up poor.”
“Mr. Eddison, I own a bakery in Halo. That ship left orbit years ago.”
His mouth twitches under his gray mustache. “Put it on my tab.”
I tap the side of the register with exaggerated seriousness. “Your tab has achieved sentience and asked me for voting rights.”
“Smart tab.”
“Deadbeat tab.”
He chuckles and takes the box with both hands, like pastry is something sacred. “You’re a good girl, Evie.”
“I’m a grown woman with a terrifying amount of debt, but I accept the compliment.”
He leaves a few credits in the tip jar anyway. Not enough to cover both rolls, but enough to make the gesture matter.
The morning rush builds from there. Dockworkers in salt-stained jackets. Nurses from the clinic two streets over. Two mothers splitting one breakfast sandwich between three kids. A courier with cybernetic eyes who flirts with Darlene because apparently bravery and stupidity are close cousins. A municipal sanitation worker who tells me the east gutter pumps backed up again, which means the alley will smell like boiled sewage by noon if the city does what it usually does and ignores us.
“Charming,” I say while filling his coffee. “Maybe I’ll put that in the tourism brochure.”
He laughs. “Halo: come for the pastries, stay because someone stole your tires.”
