“Looks like a carpenter set them with a ruler,” I said.

Eleanor set a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls in the glass display case and wiped the metal frame with a clean towel.

She didn’t rush her work.

For seven years, every Saturday morning had felt like holding a dark secret under our coats while the clock ticked toward January.

Now the only sounds in the store were the steady hum of the milk cooler and the rattle of paper bags behind the counter.

Howard Finch came in at half past eight, his heavy wool coat buttoned up to his chin against the frost.