“It is very good,” I say finally.
Evie’s expression changes. Not triumph. Not exactly. Softer than that. “Thank you.”
I do not know why praise for food seems to matter so much to her. Then I think of her flour-streaked hands, the way people come in cold and leave warmer, the invoices I saw yesterday stacked near the register, edges worn from being handled too often. This bakery is not only her work. It is her argument with the world.
“You made this?” I ask.
“With these very hands.” She wiggles her fingers. “Darlene made the potatoes.”
“Which are better,” Darlene says.
“They are not better. They are potatoes.”
“Potatoes carry civilization.”
“Pastry carries joy.”
“Joy won’t keep you alive through winter.”
“Neither will potatoes if you throw them at customers.”
Darlene points the coffee pot at her. “Don’t tempt me.”
The exchange moves quickly, comfortable as old machinery. I watch it with the faint unease of an enemy soldier observing unfamiliar customs. They insult one another without cruelty. They argue without threat. Evie stands in pain and still shines at the old woman as if every barb is a form of music.
At the far table, Mr. Eddison raises a hand. “Evie, this compad’s doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where it hates me.”
“All technology hates you because you call it names.”
“It started first.”
Evie begins to move toward him, then stops when her ribs punish her. I stand before deciding to stand.
“I will look,” I say.
Every face turns toward me.
Mr. Eddison grips his compad as if I have offered to perform surgery on his soul. “You know compads?”
“Yes.”
Darlene murmurs, “He knows fuel lines, locks, and now compads. Careful, Evie, he’s becoming useful.”
Evie gives me a grateful look that makes useful feel more dangerous than combat.
I cross to Mr. Eddison’s table slowly. He is an older human with worn hands, swollen knuckles, and a cap pulled low. He smells of medicated cream, coffee, and old machine oil. His fear is mild but present. I stop a respectful distance away.
“May I?” I ask.
He blinks. “You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Huh.” He hands me the compad.
