The alarm goes off at 3:58 a.m., which is rude, because it is not even a real time. It is an insult disguised as a number.
My room is cold. My sheets are warm. My bones feel like they have been poured full of cement.
For one full second, I consider pretending I did not hear the alarm. I could. I could roll over, bury my face in the pillow, and let the bakery open itself. Let the sourdough feed itself. Let the ovens preheat themselves. Let the city feed itself.
Then the image hits me, automatic and sharp. A silent, dark shop. The starter unfed. The morning buns unbaked. The regulars staring at a locked door. Everything I worked for, everything Meemaw worked for, gone.
I sit up.
“Ok,” I whisper into the dark, like I am negotiating with my own body. “Ok.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and my feet find the floor. I shuffle to the bathroom and flick on the light. The mirror gives me exactly what I expected. Hair sticking up in the back. A line of drool dried into my cheek like a watermark. Eyes that look like they have been trying to solve a math problem all night.
I splash cold water on my face. The sting is immediate and grounding. I pull my hair back into a bun so tight it feels like it is holding my brain in place. Clean apron. Clean shirt. Clean pants. There is flour dust on everything I own, permanently, like I am haunted by wheat.
I step into my pants and pause. They go on, but they do not forgive. The waistband is snug in a way it was not last year. Or the year before. I tell myself it is the holidays, then remind myself the holidays were four months ago.
I grab my keys, my phone, and the little notebook I pretend I do not need.
On the way out, I pause with my hand on the doorknob. The city outside is still asleep. The hallway is silent. I can hear my own breathing. Meemaw would be proud of me.
I keep my hood up and walk fast. Three blocks. Past the closed liquor store. Past the corner bodega with its neon OPEN 24 HOURS sign that never blinks. Past the posters for the upcoming Grizzlies hockey game.
Then I see it.
Sunrise and Salt.
I go around back and unlock the metal alley door. The key sticks, like it always does. I twist harder. It finally gives with a reluctant click.
I step inside and pull the door shut behind me.
Everything is exactly where I left it. Except immediately, I know I am not alone.
There is a rustle in the walk-in. The soft slam of a milk crate shifting. A muttered curse that sounds like someone arguing with an inanimate object as if it has personally offended them.
“Morning, boss,” Gwen calls, her voice muffled by the walk-in door.
I do not even have to see her to smile.
“Morning, Gwen,” I call back. “Please tell me you fed the starter.”
“Please tell me you slept more than four hours,” she shoots back, and I can hear the grin in her voice.
Gwen steps out carrying a plastic Cambro like it is a newborn. She already has flour on her cheek. Her apron is crooked, like she tied it while moving. Her hair is in a messy bun that looks like it survived a small storm.
She looks me up and down.
“You look like death,” she announces.
“You look like you slept in the walk-in,” I joke back.
“I considered it,” she replies. “It is peaceful. No phones. No dreams. Just dairy.”
I take the Cambro from her and crack the lid.
The starter is alive. Bubbly. Thick. It smells tangy and sweet, the kind of smell that makes you think of apples, beer, and warm bread all at once.
“Auntie June is dramatic today,” Gwen reports, leaning on the counter. “She bubbled like she had something to prove.”
