“Not bad,” he says with his mouth full.
Darlene picks up a broken cup and throws it at him.
It misses by an inch and shatters against the door as it closes.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
Rain hammers the boarded world outside. The broken display case sparks weakly. Somewhere in the kitchen, the soup warmer continues humming as if nothing has happened.
Darlene grips the counter with one hand. Her wrist is already swelling where the gang member twisted it.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
“No.”
“Darlene.”
“I’m old. Everything hurts.”
I move toward her, but my foot crunches on glass, and the sound makes me look down.
My bakery is ruined.
Not fully. Not permanently. A practical part of my brain knows that. Tables can be repaired. Glass can be replaced. Pastries can be remade. The mural can be cleaned, maybe. But in that moment, the damage feels intimate, as if they reached into my chest and smashed the warmest thing there because I dared say no.
I crouch and start picking up ruined cinnamon rolls with my bare hands.
Darlene hurries around the counter. “Don’t touch the glass.”
“I need to clean.”
“Evie.”
“I need to clean.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I look at my hand. A shard has sliced my palm, small but bright red. The pain seems to arrive only after I see it.
“Oh,” I say.
Darlene takes my wrist and wraps it in a towel. Her face is hard, but her fingers are careful. “Sit down.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.” My voice shakes. I hate it. “If I sit down, I’ll stop being able to do this.”
“Then don’t do it alone.”
She releases me, grabs the broom, and begins sweeping with short, furious strokes. I find another broom because the first one is mine, and ownership matters when everything else feels broken. For twenty minutes, we work without speaking. We right chairs. We collect shattered plates. We throw away pastries full of glass. I wipe coffee and tea from the floor. Darlene shuts off the display case after it spits another spark, cursing so creatively my grandmother’s ghost probably blushes.
People come back slowly.
Mrs. Pell returns first with towels, eyes red. Renn comes running after someone tells him, bringing scrap panels before I ask. Mr. Eddison hobbles in with a broom and the expression of a man ready to fight a war his body cannot survive. Other neighbors gather at the edges, angry and frightened, offering help in embarrassed voices.
I smile at all of them.
