Mrs. Johnson dropped her heavy canvas handbag onto the floorboards, the thud echoing in the quiet bedroom as she rushed toward the bed. Her worn, flour-dusted hands were shaking violently when she reached out and gathered me into a tight, desperate embrace. She smelled completely of the bakery—sweet vanilla, burnt sugar, and yeast—a scent that instantly shattered the cold, clinical aura of the compound and pulled me back to reality.
"Oh, my sweet girl," Mrs. Johnson sobbed into my shoulder, her body trembling against mine. "Look at you. Look what has happened to you. When that boy Tyler told me he knew where you were, I prayed to the Lord he was right. I’ve been beside myself, Tessa. Absolutely beside myself."
I buried my face in her neck, the tears I had been holding back all morning fi
