Mark didn’t go to the kitchen.

He walked down the narrow hall and tapped twice on my bedroom door frame with his knuckle.

“Mom, you awake?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He pushed the door open, bringing a draft of night air and cold rain into the small room.

A soft, sweet smell of cinnamon and baked apples came off the white cardboard box in his hand.

He walked over to my small nightstand and set the pastry box down beside my reading lamp.