Asa closed the stall with a piece of bread still waiting on the counter.
It had belonged to a customer who went to find his household and never returned for it. She wrapped it, marked the time and gave it to the next cook rather than carry it into a story about the last meal she had served on Mercy. The stove was cooling. The clean pots had been counted. The second shift knew where its fuel was.
She could leave because someone else could work.
Her mother waited in the doorway of the room above, holding a small blue bowl.
“That’s too much to carry loose,” Asa said.
“I know.”
“Put it in the bedding.”
“It will break.”
