“Renn, can you board the window?”
Renn straightens as if grateful for orders. “Yeah. I’ve got panel scrap at the shop.”
“Get it.”
“On it.”
“Mr. Eddison, sit before you fall.”
The old man scowls. “I can sweep.”
“You can direct from a chair.”
“I was directing cargo crews before you were hatched.”
“I was not hatched.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Evie makes a tiny sound that might become a laugh if the world were gentler.
I turn to Mrs. Pell. “You brought towels?”
“Yes.”
“Use them for the spill near the register. Not the glass.”
She nods immediately.
Darlene points her cigarette toward the back. “And what am I doing, General Doom?”
“Watching Evie.”
Darlene’s face changes. “That I can do.”
“I do not need watching,” Evie says, but the protest is weak.
“No,” Darlene replies, moving to her side. “You need a chair, tea, and someone to curse creatively on your behalf.”
“I already cursed.”
“Sweetheart, I heard. You used retail curses. I’m talking real artistry.”
The bakery begins moving around us. Renn runs out into the rain. Mrs. Pell kneels with towels. Mr. Eddison sits only after Darlene threatens to hit his bad knee with kindness. I retrieve tarps, cover the broken display case, move ruined chairs aside, and sort salvageable debris from hazards. Every motion sharpens the need waiting beneath my skin.
This is delay.
Necessary delay. Useful delay. But delay.
Ron Sanchez is breathing somewhere.
That remains unacceptable.
When the window is boarded and the power isolated, when the worst glass is cleared and the remaining customers have either left or been bullied out by Darlene, the bakery finally empties into something close to quiet. Rain taps against the temporary panel over the cracked window. The room smells like wet wood, sugar, sparks, tobacco, and grief.
Evie stands behind the counter staring at the ruined display case.
Darlene looks at me. “I’m going outside to smoke.”
