Down the cobblestone hill, a bright yellow streetcar ground its wheels on the iron rails and stopped at the corner to let off three elderly women with woven shopping bags.

A breeze drifted up from the river two blocks south, bringing the smell of salt air and fresh bread.

My phone sat in my sweater pocket, completely quiet.

There were no text alerts, no urgent bank notifications and no message from a suburban area code asking where the mortgage payment was.

I bit into the pastry, and crisp layers of dough flaked onto the paper napkin under my plate.

The baker came out from behind the counter with a spray bottle and a clean cloth to wipe down the empty table beside mine.