The activity room smells like butter and warm sugar before they're even through the door.
Mia stands at her station in a daisy-print apron, hands in gloves, staring at the ingredients arranged in front of her.
Back home, her territory was pasta and whatever her mother left in the fridge. Baked goods require a precision she respects but does not possess.
The children at her table watch her with patient, enormous eyes.
She picks up the flour bag. The seal is industrial-grade and her gloves are slippery and she is getting absolutely nowhere with this.
"Is that bag giving you trouble?"
She turns.
Elias has rolled his sleeves to the elbow and is wearing a shark-print apron, and he's walking toward her with the expression of someone who has been watching this unfold for a moment and found
