Chapter 9 - The Core Temperature
The victory was sweet, but the cost was brutal.
To supply three schools and four independent grocery stores every morning, Bellweather Bakery had to run twenty-four hours a day. Arthur handled the afternoon mixing and the starter feeding, but the actual hearth shifts fell entirely on Rowan.
He was sleeping three hours a night, his body running on pure adrenaline, black coffee, and the sharp, hot air of the fire-clay oven. His hands were covered in minor burns, his knuckles cracked from the constant washing, and his eyes were permanently ringed with dark circles of exhaustion.
Tessa noticed.
One evening in late April, as Rowan was preparing to head down to the bakery for the midnight shift, she stood in the kitchen doorway of their Braddock apartment, holding her toy rabbit by one ear.
"Papa," she said, her voice small. "Are we poor again?"
Rowan stopped, his hand on the door handle. He knelt down, his knees groaning, and pulled her into his arms. "No, Tess. We aren't poor. The bakery is doing great. We paid off the whole tax bill today. We’re safe."
"Then why are you always tired?" she whispered, her face burying into his shoulder. "You look like you did when Mama was in the hospital. You don't laugh anymore."
Rowan’s chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. He looked at the pale strip of skin on his ring finger—the mark of a promise he had kept, even if it cost him everything he had left. He realized that in his rush to build a wall around his daughter, he had turned himself into the brick.
"I’m sorry, Tess," he said, his voice cracking slightly in the dark hallway. "I’m just... I’m just trying to make sure the lights stay on."
"I don't care about the lights," she said, holding him tighter. "I like the earthquake apartment. I just want you to stay home."
Rowan sat on the floorboards with her for twenty minutes, listening to the spin cycles below them, until her breathing slowed and she fell asleep in his arms. He carried her back to her bed, tucked the blankets around her chin, and stood in the quiet room for a long time.
He didn't go to the bakery at midnight. He called Arthur.
"Arthur," Rowan said, his voice flat with a deep, bone-weary clarity. "The school order is going to be two hours late tomorrow. I’m staying with my daughter until the sun comes up."
The old man on the other end of the line was silent for five seconds. "It’s about time, son. The yeast can wait. The kid can't."
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The next morning, the school delivery was late by eighty minutes. The cafeteria manager grumbled, but when the hot, fresh bread arrived, the scent cleared the kitchen, and the kids didn't notice the delay.
Rowan walked Tessa to the front gate of her school that morning, his hand holding hers tightly. He didn't look at his watch. He didn't check the sky for snow. He just watched the way her new blue sneakers moved across the concrete, light and free, because she didn't have to carry the weight of his fear anymore.
