Tony
My hands were shaking, and it wasn't just the cold. Spending two hours in the Millers' crawlspace wrestling with corroded copper and a man who seemed to take personal offense at the concept of help had drained whatever was left in my tank. I smelled like solder, wet insulation, and the kind of deep-seated fatigue that usually takes a week to shake.
I pushed through the back door of the bakery, dropping my toolbox with a heavy clank that felt like an exclamation point on a very long day. I expected chaos. I expected Myra to be pacing the floor, counting our losses with a ledger book in hand.
Instead, the kitchen was quiet.
I leaned against the doorframe, wiping a streak of grey grease from my forehead, and looked into the front.
Myra was there, behind the counter. She looked wreck
