Myra
The ascent up the back stairs was a journey into a different world. We exited the pink and red madness of the cafe and climbed to the simple apartment above, shielding our eyes from the sleet and freezing rain. The wind shrieked against the siding, making the old wood groan like a ship taking on water.
I followed Tony, watching the way he moved. He was stiff, his gait hitching every time he put weight on his right side. He was trying to hide it, but I’d spent a decade reading people’s posture in boardrooms to tell when they were bluffing. Tony wasn’t bluffing; he was hurting. Sixteen hours of hauling fifty-pound flour sacks, leaning over low prep tables, kneading dough, delivering lattes and playing the part of the neighborhood hero had finally drained the battery.
In my pocket, t
