Missy & Kalek

Kneading the ductile dough took my mind off the chaos. My phone continued to ring, demanding a response. As did the news anchors filming the protests. Anarchy reigned on a Monday afternoon.

The front door opened and shut with a definitive slam. Shoes clipped across the wood floor in the foyer, every step producing a bead of sweat. Barnaby came around the corner, cheeks flushed and thick curls plastered to his face.

I slammed the dough on the powdered counter. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know.”