He didn’t say another word.

He bent down, picked up the single brown cardboard box by its cut-out handles, and turned away.

I stood on the porch under the warm yellow light as Trevor walked down the concrete driveway, carrying the one box out into the gray afternoon.

Two weeks later, flour lay half an inch deep on the kitchen counter next to the heavy wooden rolling pin.

Sadie pressed the rim of a drinking glass into the rolled-out dough, leaving four round circles in a row on the wax paper.