Riley fell asleep with flour still under her fingernails.
She didn't remember lying down. One moment she was sitting at the edge of the bed, listening to the twins breathe through the wall, and the next the smell of cinnamon was rising around her, thicker than it should have been.
Then a bell rang.
It was a small, bright sound, the kind that hung above a shop door. Riley opened her eyes and found herself behind a counter she hadn't stood behind in years.
Not this one, she thought. Please. Not this one.
But dreams never listened.
The bakery was tiny. Four tables, a glass case, a chalkboard with the day's specials in the crooked handwriting of the old baker who had let her work the counter in exchange for lessons and silence. Rain streaked the window.
The lamps were yellow and warm. The old baker had shuffled to the back room, muttering about his knees, and left the girl alone with the register and the rain.
