"Welcome—what can I pack for you?" "I want the strawberry cake, please," the little girl said, voice bouncing like a rubber ball. "One slice or a whole?" Khloe asked, smiling, hands already moving for the box. "Whole. For my mom's birthday," the girl said, eyes bright. "And can he have a tiny taste? He's quiet." Khloe blinked at the boy tucked under the girl's arm. He was no older than six, cheeks full, serious like a tiny judge. "Of course," Khloe said, because she had been trained to be polite and efficient and because the oven timer chimed like a metronome and orders waited. She scooped the cake with practiced care, layered wax paper, slid it in the box, tied the sticker just right. The little girl watched like the whole deal was sacred. "What's your name?" Khloe asked. "Emily," the girl said. "Tell your mom happy birthday from June's," Khloe said. Emily nodded and offered the cake box across the counter. Her small hand rested against the cardboard for a beat. A voice spoke behind them, low and polished. "Make it two small slices," the man said. Khloe looked up. For a second she could not organize the muscle in her face. He was tall in a way that made the ceiling seem lower. He wore a coat that kept all corners tight and a backpack that looked like it belonged to someone who scheduled his breath. His face held a careful neutral