The silver bell tinkles as the door closes, and then there is glass between us. Glass and a thousand thoughts I don’t want to have. My hand still rests on the top of the counter, as if he hadn’t taken the olive bread.

He can’t look at me and not know who I am. Who my mother is.

I pull back my hand and cross it over my chest. No. I should leave him alone. Get as far away from both of them as I can possibly get. Maybe even leave Portage.

Blue.

Blue, blue, blue.

The color of a clear morning sky or deep ocean waves. Blue is a brush of cold. The breeze of the fan against my face, pushing away the curling heat of the ovens from behind.

If I close my eyes, then I see his so clearly. The scents of lemon and paint and wood. I reach out for counter, but I touch—

Elly!

I curl around myself. I’m torn between two places. A memory so strong it yanks me from the bakery and deposits me somewhere else. Carpet itches the bottom of my legs so intensely it’s like I’m there—in that dark closet. Shirts hang above me. My brother is usually here, but I don’t know where he is. I need to get back to myself—but the wood against my fingertips is so real.

No. Metal, not wood. I don’t want to be here.

Elly!

The closet door folds open, and I put up a hand to block the light. My eyes focus, and my mother smiles at me. Her high cheekbones are sharp at first, but they soften as she kneels and sets a hand on my shoulder.

Your brother isn’t here, and I have to go.

I’m shaking my head and telling her, I can’t. Over and over. I can’t. I can’t.

You have to, she says. A smile plasters on her face. It’s easy. Come on and I’ll show you.

I don’t want to leave the dark safety of the closet, but she grabs my hand and pulls me into a bedroom. He’s lying on a mattress. Asleep. Brown hair and cuts tracking up his arms. I squint my eyes so I can’t see the way he’s handcuffed to the bottom of the heating register.

Give him one of these every two hours. She grabs a wooden box off the dresser. Right in the skin like we practiced on the orange. It’s easier on skin.

She flips open the top of the box. Eight syringes and one marker are lined neatly in a row.

Every two hours, Elly. I’ve marked the times on his arm. So if you aren’t sure, just look. Then cross off the time. She points to the marker.

“Ella.” I shake off the voice. It doesn’t belong here.

You’ll do fine, sweetie. Just follow the times. She kisses me on the head before she leaves.

I stand in the almost silence. The man is on the bed with his legs straight out in front of him, and his arms are positioned out to the side, palms up. Cuts cover his forearms. His breath is slow. Nausea flips my stomach. I snap shut the lid of the wooden box and clutch it to my chest.

“Ella.”

I shut my eyes and take two steps closer to the bed. When I look again, I’m a foot away from him. Ink marks his arm. The first time is 2:15.

His head turns, slowly. His eyes drifting open. So blue. Like the boys I sometimes played with. I can’t do this. I won’t drug this man. I need to—

No, I don’t want these memories. I don’t want them back again.

He’s bringing them back. And the father, who didn’t seem like he recognized me either.

“Excuse me,” a voice demands.

I blink to find myself in the bakery. My one hand still tucked against my chest and the other braced against the counter.

Ms. Joanna taps on the glass. “Where’s my order?”

I shake my head, trying to get my bearings. I’m rocky, hardly standing.

“Is something wrong?” Ms. Joanna glares at me. “My order.”

I set my hands on the counter. “I, um, gave it to someone else.”

Her forehead creases like she didn’t understand what I just said. “You gave it to someone else?”

“Y-yes.” I straighten. “Someone else ordered it, and I gave it to him. And you know what?” My heart beats triple time. “We don’t even make enough from your $2.25 to pay for the olives. And you’ve never once said thank you.”

She stares at me over the glass. “I have been coming to this bakery since long before you’ve lived here.” She huffs, but she shifts her glare from me to the wall of bread behind me. “But I suppose I could do with a baguette.”