The Distant Machine
The yeast jar sits in my palm, heavy with white powder that clings to the knuckles like dried skin. It is March fourteenth, and the ovens at Kowalski’s Bakery are breathing. I have worked the night shift here for twenty-two years, long enough to know the exact pitch of the gas igniting, long enough to know when the flour sacks are full and when they are starving. But tonight, there is a hum. It...
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