Fluorescent light hums against the cramped tiles of the back-of-house bathroom, a sharp contrast to the pre-dawn warmth of the ovens. Lila Reyes holds her breath, her thumb white against the plastic casing of the digital test. Seven-forty-five on a Tuesday morning, and the world narrows to a tiny liquid-crystal window. The word settles there, stark and undeniable: Pregnant.
She leans against the cold sink, the gold saint’s medal at her throat catching the clinical light. Eight weeks. It has been eight weeks since that blurred, rain-slicked night in Red Hook, a wedding she tried to bury under layers of laminated dough and sourdough starter. Her hands, reddened at the knuckles from the morning’s icewater rest, tremble as she tucks the plastic stick into the deep pocket of her charcoal apron. She isn't ready. The bakery's month-to-month lease is a ticking clock, and her mother’s recipes are the only inheritance she has left to protect.
Out in the front shop, the brass bell above the street door jingles. Lila stiffens, smoothing her apron over her jeans as a broad silhouette steps out of the morning rain.
