I didn't see Owen on moving day. I knew because his old apartment went dark, not because I was watching for him.
The Bellwether was open by then. The first official breakfast service had gone well, though we served enough coffee to wake a small town and ran out of apple tart by ten. The next week was better. By the end of the month, the kitchen had a routine. I knew which cook needed a longer handoff before a shift and which supplier could be trusted to send the apples on time.
I also knew what I wanted to do when I woke up too early.
Sometimes I worked. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I made breakfast because I was hungry.
That last part took practice. The first time I fried potatoes just for myself, I caught myself making two servings. I scraped one back into the pan. The next time, I ma
