Page 41 of Fang Fatale

"Daisy called in sick. Any chance you could help at the bakery today?"

The thought of standing behind the counter at Hex & Honey—handing cinnamon rolls to the local cryptid population—both thrills and terrifies me.

It means being seen.

Being visible.

Letting the universe acknowledge I exist.

"Yeah," I hear myself say.

"I can do that."

A beat later I add, "Do you need me now, or... coffee break time?"

"Now would be a godsend."

I'm dressed in under ten minutes, my hair twisted into a messy bun and my lips bitten pink instead of bothering with lipstick.

The second I clip Barnaby's leash to his collar, he lunges so hard I nearly lose my wrist.

He's apparently been saving up since six yesterday evening.

Given his size, that's less a bathroom break and more a public health emergency.

We jog the four blocks to the bakery beneath a sky the color of laundry detergent.

Everyone in town seems to be walking a dog this morning.

Barnaby is easily half the size of every other canine we pass—a sausage-shaped rodent weaving between cocker spaniels and retrievers.

He doesn't appear to have noticed.

Daisy's absence has already been memorialized.

A life-sized cardboard cutout stands beside the register, her face strategically edited to look pale and dramatic. A speech bubble scrawled in Sharpie declares:

I'M SICK. SEND SOUP AND MUFFINS!!!

Beside her, Clover has thoughtfully arranged a tiny vase of violets and a cup full of honey sticks from the farmer's market.

Business is brisk, the line already winding to the front door.

Clover is moving at cheetah speed, glazing cinnamon knots while somehow microwaving the entire room with pure stress.

She catches my eye.

"You're a lifesaver," she mouths.

Then she flings an entire tray of scones into the display case and calls to the next customer without missing a beat.

"Welcome to Hex & Honey! What can I get started for you?"

I pull on a smock, wash my hands, and step behind the counter.

Barnaby immediately flattens himself beside the hearth, tongue lolling, where he's beset by four elderly ladies who apparently decide, without discussion, that their morning's purpose is convincing him to eat a croissant.

He offers only token resistance.