The whiskey was cheap, the kind that left a chemical aftertaste and a slow, dull ache behind the eyes, but it burned enough to keep the Vermont chill from settling in her bones. She switched the engine off. She didn’t want the exhaust to bloom in the cold night air like a signal fire. The only sound in the car was the rhythmic tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal, a mechanical heartbeat that felt steadier than her own.
Through the windshield, the bakery was a cinematic masterpiece of warmth—a golden, flour-dusted box of light that looked far too inviting for a town this grey. She watched Tony lean against his broom, his posture loose, his face wearing an expression of peace that made her chest tighten.
And then there was Myra.
Her daughter moved with a frantic, beautiful energy, swinging
