The plastic CVS stick rests against the marble-topped vanity, glaring under the hum of the harsh fluorescent light. Two stark, unapologetic pink lines stare back at Sofia, a chemical verdict she cannot bake away or bury in flour.
Six weeks. The math is as precise as a macaron shell, pointing directly back to that cold November Saturday when the man with the dark, unsmiling eyes had placed his hand at the small of her back. The bakery air outside the door is thick with the scent of proofing yeast and anise, the pre-dawn ritual of Salem Street beginning without her. Her hands, chapped at the seam of the thumb from the December chill, tremble as she reaches for the saint medal at her throat. Santa Rosalia, help me, she breathes in a Sicilian whisper, her reflection pale and ghostly in the spotted mirror.
She has twenty minutes before Nonna Rosa arrives to start the sfogliatelle, twenty minutes to become the woman she was before the test. She sweeps the plastic evidence into her apron pocket, her heart thudding a jagged rhythm against her ribs. Then, the silence of the staff bathroom shatters. A sharp, rhythmic knock begins hammering against the frosted glass of the bathroom door.
