Chapter 9: The Loud Cot

By five o'clock Main Street had no lights, no phones and no refrigerators, and the Founders' Oven was the only warm thing in Kettle Landing.

It had been built before electricity ran down that street, and nobody had told it to stop.

Soren stood in front of it with a bucket of split oak and a face of pure joy.

"It burns without power," he said. "It's wood. It doesn't need a plug."

"Your face is doing something."

"It's called happiness. I'm told it's rare."

I looked out the barred window at forty tourists in sun hats, standing in the rain with their luggage.

Behind them, the tour guide held a flashlight under his chin and told a woman in a poncho the Feud was not usually this wet.

"They can't leave," I said. "The tree's across the road. The motel is full, and the church hall has no stove."

"We have a stove."

"We have one oven, forty strangers and two hundred pounds of flour."

"Flatbread," said Soren.

"Flatbread."

We looked at each other.

In the doorway of the Back Room, Dagny appeared with a lantern and her copper buns dripping.

"What's the plan?"

"We're feeding the tourists," I said.

"The two of you?"

"We're competitors, Dagny," said Soren stiffly. "Naturally, we're doing it separately."

"Naturally," said Dagny, and went to find a cart.

We opened both shop doors and the alley door.

The tourists came in with wet shoes and sat on flour sacks and crates.

Soren stood at the steel table with a bench scraper and a pencil, running the line like a general.

"Dough, four hundred grams, divide by twelve," he said. "Two minutes rest. Thirty seconds on the stone."

"Faster than that," I said, rolling, "or they'll chew on the doorframe."

"My timing is optimal."

"Your timing is a hostage situation."

Behind us a man in a rain poncho said, "Are they fighting?"