The Wistful Show
The dough is dead, Elias. That is what the foreman said, standing in the doorway with his coat dripping onto the flour-dusted floorboards, his voice flat and final as a judge’s gavel. He did not look at me. He looked at the tray, then at the clock on the wall, then at the exit. I wanted to tell him that the dough was not dead, that it was merely sleeping, that the yeast was working in the dark,...
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