Tony
The truck’s heater was humming, but the air inside the cab felt thin. Myra was holding that ten-thousand-dollar check like it was made of glass, her eyes locked on the road ahead as if she could see the timeline of the next forty-eight hours unfolding in the snow.
She was spiraling. I didn’t need to be an "efficiency expert" to see it. I could practically hear the gears in her head grinding as she calculated the failure rate of every muffin and scone.
"The math doesn't work," she whispered.
I kept my eyes on the slushy curve of the road. "I know this is going to come as a shock to your operating system, but it’s not always about the math."
I wasn't as confident as I sounded. As we pulled into the center of Mount Tabor, I glanced at the bakery’s storefront. It looked small. It loo
