He picked up a cinnamon pastry from a bakery box on the counter and took a large bite.

The red second hand on the wall clock ticked to eight fifty-nine a.m.

I sat perfectly still at the kitchen table, my cold hands wrapped around my mug, and waited for the doorbell to ring.

The doorbell chime echoed down the hallway, loud and brassy in the quiet house.

Mark raised his head from his phone, his eyebrows knitting together in a sharp line as he looked toward the entryway.

“Did you order a package, Mom?” he asked, his eyes darting down to his gold wristwatch for two seconds.