"Not coming?" he said.
I came, and didn't slow my pace getting to the car.
He drove to a bakery in the central district, one of the proper ones with the wide front window and the warm bread smell that hit you from half a street away. He loaded several boxes into the back of the car without comment, and I stood on the pavement watching him and thought about what it meant that he'd done this without being asked.
He was difficult and cold and controlled every detail of my life down to the hour I had to be home, but he was also standing outside a bakery at half past eight in the morning loading pastry boxes into a car so my friend didn't leave the Northern Reach empty-handed.
I picked up two more boxes myself before he'd finished.
"Just for two friends?" His tone was dry, his head tilting
