Page 35 of The Baker’s Shadow

The baby kicks. Hard. Like it’s trying to punch its way out.

Day three, the world tilts sideways.

I make it to the bakery at five thirty. Later than usual. It took me three tries to get out of bed. My legs kept folding underneath me like they’d forgotten how to hold weight.

The first batch of dough fights me. My hands are too weak to knead it properly. The gluten won’t develop. I have to use the stand mixer, something I never do. The machine does the work while I lean against the counter and try not to pass out.

The hollow has spread to my limbs now. My fingers. My toes. Like I’m being eaten from the inside out.

I should close. Put up a sign. Take the day off.

But if I close, I’ll have to admit something is wrong. And if I admit that, I’ll have to do something about it.

So I open at seven like always.

The teenager with the nose ring comes in first. “Hey. Can I get two of those sourdough loaves? My mom loved the last one.”

I smile. Nod. Reach for the bread.

The room spins.

I grab the counter. Hold on. Wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t pass.

The girl’s voice comes from somewhere far away. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”

“I’m fine. Just. Give me a second.”

But the second stretches. The spinning gets worse. The hollow in my chest clenches like a fist.

“I need to. I’ll be right back.”

I stumble toward the kitchen. My legs are shaking so hard I can barely walk. The doorframe catches my shoulder. I bounce off it. Keep moving.

The counter. I just need to reach the counter. Hold on until this passes.

My hip hits the flour canister. It topples. Explodes in a white cloud across the floor.

I try to catch it. My hand closes on air. My knees buckle.

The pulse in my stomach goes frantic. Hammering. Screaming.

Then I’m falling. The floor rushes up. My head cracks against the tile and everything goes white.

Voices. Distant. Echoing like they’re coming from the bottom of a well.

“...unconscious. We need to call an ambulance.”

“No.” My voice. Barely a whisper. “No hospital.”

“Kaia, you hit your head. You need...”

“No.” I force my eyes open. Mrs. Chen’s face swims above me. Too many edges. Blurring. “Can’t. The baby.”

Understanding flashes across her face. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

She pulls out her phone. Not calling 911. Someone else.