Myra
The lunch rush was no longer a wave; it was a tide.
I stood behind the counter, my fingers flying across the tablet screen I’d installed on Monday to handle the online orders. Behind me, the espresso machine hissed like a dragon, and the air was thick with the scent of warm raspberry muffins and the sharp, floral notes of the "Kent Classic" roast.
The shop didn't feel like a dying project. It felt like a heartbeat.
Leo was a lifesaver. At eighteen, he was in that local limbo after high school, working part time shifts at several local businesses, including Dottie’s Place and the Farmers’ Co-op. He moved with an effortless, leggy grace, sliding trays of "Break-Up Bread" onto the pick-up counter with a lopsided grin that he used on the customers like a master key.
By 3:00 PM, the
