Chapter 19: The Receipt

The bakery opens at six, and by five the ovens are already hot.

I was shaping rolls at the back table with flour to my elbows when someone knocked on the alley door.

It was Philip, in a charcoal coat, holding a manila envelope.

I let him in because the cold was coming through the door, and for no other reason.

"You don't have to," he said.

"The rolls are rising. Stand over there."

He stood by the sacks of flour and did not touch anything.

My boss came out of the cold room carrying a tray, looked him up and down, and said, "Is this the one?"

"This is the one," I said.

"He's very tall."

"He's leaving soon."

"I'll stay as long as you'll let me," said Philip.

"Then take that apron," my boss said, "and fold boxes."

He took the apron.

I watched my brother, who ran a company with four thousand employees, learn to fold a pastry box.

He folded it wrong.

He folded the second one wrong in a different way.

"The tab goes in the slot," I said.

"Which tab?"

"The one that is clearly a tab."

He tried again, and it held.

He looked up at me with plain, stupid pride.

I turned back to my dough before my face could answer him.

"I resigned," he said after a while.

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