Chapter Text
He forgets his name right as he burns his hand on the stove.
The kitchen smells faintly of burnt strawberries and cream cheese — not the sweet, comforting kind, but the acidic tang of sugar pushed past its limit and cheese curdled from too much heat. The pan on the stovetop hissed angrily, a small curl of smoke rising from the rim where a dollop of filling has dripped and scorched.
Petey curses under his breath, dragging his hand back from the stove just as he brushes the edge of the burner.
“Sh—!” His voice cracks and cuts off before he can even finish, biting down on the rest of the word as though it will make the pain retreat. He clutches his finger and shakes it quickly, gritting his teeth as he backs away from the heat. His feet thump against the black-and-white checkered tile — remnants of a ‘50s diner aesthetic that clashes wildly with the rest of the room.
The kitchen is a wild medley of who Petey is and who he has been trying not to be.
Band posters framed in cheap plastic line the walls — old tour dates, peeling corners, the logo of his former band still bold in red and silver, even though his presence has long been scrubbed from their socials. An electric guitar hangs between the fridge and the hallway door, its cord curled and resting like a snake on the kitchen counter. It replaced his old acoustic one a while ago. Stickers cover every surface — cabinets, the trash can lid, even the coffee maker — like graffiti left over from a past life. The only thing untouched is the recipe box sitting open near the back of the counter, its wooden lid propped awkwardly against a jar of instant coffee.
A clash of design, but Petey can’t bring himself to get rid of anything here in the kitchen — this was Grace’s space, she loved everything about this kitchen, and if he changes anything about it, then he’s getting rid of who she was. He can still feel her in this space, and he’s not going to get rid of that ever.
His burned finger throbs — the pain sharp and bright, but somehow still muted beneath the low hum of everything else.
He leans against the chipped counter, staring down at the spoon he’s dropped, now lying in a smear of batter that has spilled across the stovetop. The spoon is coated in reddish goo — what is supposed to be the creamy strawberry filling for a homemade danish. Instead, it looks like something scraped out of a malfunctioning soft serve machine.
The stove hisses again; Petey shuts off the burner, jaw tight. “Perfect,” his voice has a bite to it under his breath, “really killing it this morning.”
Moving to the sink off to the side, Petey leans over it, cradling his hand under a stream of cold water. The steady hiss masks his quiet swearing. His forearm trembles slightly, more from the day’s mounting pressure than the second-degree burn forming at the edge of his fingertips.
He flexes his fingers, watching how they resist. His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.
The stove behind him lets out a low hiss as something unseen bubbles over and crisps into black. The front-left burner is still on. A warped saucepan sits askew on the coils, the bottom coated with what used to be a promising strawberry filling — an indication of what the spoon was being used for.
But now? Well, it has been reduced to a charred ring around the metal edges.
The kitchen, like everything else in his life lately, has turned against him.
The cabinets are a misfit collection of colors — one dull red, two navy blue, the rest white, as though the kitchen has been repainted in a different decade every five years. Stickers from music stores, band names, and small venue tags cover the refrigerator like a scrapbook that refuses to grow up.
Beside the fridge, an old amp sits on a repurposed bar stool. A pair of busted studio headphones dangle off a hook. Above it all, Petey has taped concert tickets to each cabinet so he can remember what is in them — most, if not all, are tickets that went towards his old band. Tickets that have long since expired like old shop coupons. He never looks at them for too long.
Parts of the band the remaining members won’t even miss.
The baking tray on the stove doesn’t look any better than the burnt strawberry filling, resembling that of a battlefield: cracked and torn dough, underbaked centers, the attempted cheese filling that oozes out like wounds. Petey knows that he’s messed it all up; the batter is off, the texture is wrong. The entire kitchen smells of a bakery crime scene.
Not like the bakery he visited a few days ago.
There is such a stark contrast there that he can’t help but think back to that place as he stares at his mistakes this morning. It’s everything this kitchen isn’t — or rather, hasn’t been since his mother died.
He was bathed in warm light the moment he stepped through the door, embraced by soft colors and old wood. A slow ceiling fan that didn’t screech, and counters that gleamed like they’re cleaned after every purchase, as if a health inspector would be showing up any second that day he visited. From the radio he had heard soft music from a vinyl that belongs in a seventies record shop.
A tempting listen, but only if it’s one of those old rock albums.
It was the kind of place people go to so they can just sit and breathe — a temporary escape from whatever may be troubling them that day.
Petey doesn’t breathe in his kitchen; he burns, he rushes. He spins in the debris of the natural disaster while that bakery stays grounded in the eye of the hurricane.
He needs to turn the oven off. There’s no saving this breakfast even if he wanted to — the clock won’t allow it, after all. So he halts the preheating just as it reaches completion, and the appliance gives a low groan in response, rattling with age. The batter bowl sits beside him, the spoon’s imprint still visible where Petey had stirred it half-heartedly, distracted, and even detached in such a way that finishing it just became a means of survival.
No matter if it was burnt to a crisp or not, because baking isn’t the real problem — even though it’s the one thing he has never been able to master.
The real problem is sitting folded beneath a crumpled envelope on a windowsill beside the recipe box — a pathetic attempt at framing the wind should it float the letter right out of his house. Maybe not quite justified, but Petey doesn’t exactly give a damn anymore.
He’s gotten mail like this consistently for the last couple of months, and he’s promptly ignored every single one of them. Petey just never thought the warnings would turn into actual threats.
Petey glances at it again; the envelope bears the letterhead of the family court’s outreach office. Inside it is a report. A complaint.
An issue filed by his own father claiming that Li’l Petey is unsafe within his care. Unfit living conditions, questionable income with emotional instability and a dash of irresponsibility.
Bullshit, all of it.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t matter when it is signed and stamped and filed by someone with enough power and enough hatred to weaponize the system. His father hadn’t cared about Petey when he was kid — not when he dropped out of school to tour, when the band turned on him, and certainly not when his mother died.
It seems as though he died along with her, even though he is still very much breathing.
A zombie, one Petey has never been able to reason with.
But now the old bastard has risen from the grave wanting to be a savior. Only because there is money on the table — Petey’s money.
After he got kicked out of the band — after the fight, after the public fallout, and the smashing of his guitar — his father lost the big payout he’d been counting on. Petey’s not sure why he kept his father tethered on this rope, sliding down the money to him as though his life is on fire and it is the only way to save his income. The only communication he’s ever gotten from this transaction is a very colorful letter in the mail if he is ever late transferring the money.
Petey started purposefully being late with the money in hopes of sending his father over the edge, a false hope that maybe he’d get so frustrated he’d break out in a rage and go back into hiding, abandoning him again.
By now, he will gladly take that over having his father in his life again.
But separation comes with a price, and unfortunately that is Li’l Petey.
The report means a court date, and a court date means evidence. They want proof to see if his son is in a safe, stable environment. And that means showing up to a scheduled doctor’s appointment, showing clean records while demonstrating a routine that has his son’s best interests at heart.
Even if it is a farce.
Petey grips the counter as he tries to remember to breathe, forgetting to dry his hand that is starting to recover from the burn. His eyes flick towards the recipe box — old wood, stained and worn, the metal clasp slightly bent. The cards inside smell like cinnamon and coffee and time, and Grace’s handwriting flows in a looping script down the front of each one. He pulls out the card for the strawberry danish, scans it, and sighs once he realizes what he has missed.
Vanilla; he always forgets the vanilla.
Except, surprisingly when he’s trying to make anything with chocolate. Then, it seems, he can’t remember anything else but the vanilla.
Right beside the recipe box sits her will. The corner of it is curled, pages slightly wrinkled from moisture, maybe when he accidentally spilt coffee on it last winter. Or perhaps, from the tears he’s shed ever since he received the thin slice of paper that can cut his heart up into a million pieces with no instructions on how to sew it back together.
A needle and thread hadn’t been provided with the will.
He’s not sure why Petey expected them to be.
He’s read it once, just once though, and the words haunt him no matter where he is. Grace wants him to cook — no, bake — every recipe in this handmade box. The ones she never got to create for him; she wants him to taste what she can’t anymore.
Share the love of sweets like she did with him.
Petey only wishes his mom would have remembered how shitty he is at baking. Cooking he can at least manage something edible most of the time, but baking desserts of any kind always ends with him being shot and left in a puddle of dough and filling for the aftermath.
He drags a hand over his face, leaving a faint trail of water across his cheekbone. Petey feels it in the way his fur immediately mats down against his skin like leather. The strawberry filling is burnt, the dough is somehow over and undercooked at the same time, and he’s not even going to address the cheese element of the danish. Grace’s recipe deserves better than this.
“Papa?”
The voice floats over from the next room — light, tentative. Petey turns, blinking like he’s been underwater too long.
Li’l Petey is sitting in the middle of the living room rug, surrounded by action figures and soft animal toys that look like they survived a dozen washing machine cycles. His ears flick as he looks up, concerned when he’s far too young to be. The kid is still in his pajamas — space rockets on the pants, an old faded band t-shirt too big for him, obviously given to him by Petey.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
Petey forces a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice so quiet it could be drowned out by a simple breath. “Yeah, I’m good, kiddo. We’re still on time.”
But they aren’t, not really. He has twenty minutes to get dressed, pack his work bag, and coax the kid into his coat because of the weather. He’d never meant for mornings like this — tangled and burnt and clumsy. His mom would’ve had breakfast on the table already, he knows that much. She would’ve packed a lunch for the two of them and tucked a note in it too.
Petey crouches, trying to sweep the worst of the mess into the trash, when the edge of the spoon catches his already burned finger.
“God—damn—!” He flinches back, shaking his hand again, then swearing louder this time without the aid of running water to cut his voice out. He can feel the sting well up beneath the fur, and can already see the red blooming in a small blister.
He is unraveling, and the worst part?
Petey has to pull it back together — for the sake of a doctor’s appointment meant to convince strangers in power that he is good enough to raise his own kid.
He blows out a long breath and stands back up, clenching and unclenching his fist. He is done with the baking, done trying to create Grace’s recipes she left behind for him. Petey gave it the old college try, and that was that. He can’t afford another mistake.
The smell of burnt sugar is making his stomach turn, and the only saving grace is that order he placed a few days ago with that pristine little bakery smack dab in the middle of the city.
Petey had rolled his eyes the whole time during that order — the guy was too calm, even as they got into a tizzy about the flavor of cookie he wanted to order. He was also too well-kept, like someone who alphabetizes their teas and listens to classical music in the shower. But there had been something odd about him, too. It wasn’t something as simple as condescending or disingenuous, just quiet.
Focused. Watching.
Petey doesn’t trust people who watch like that, but somehow he does trust the quality of the desserts there even if he doesn’t want to admit it. The quality even almost rivals Grace’s, and that about sends him to the edge all on its own.
The memory of the baker’s face floats up: polite, but reserved, with eyes that said more than his gestures ever did. Petey had made snide comments while ordering, looking for a crack in the baker’s exterior, but nothing had landed. He stayed steady, soft handed when he signed, unshakable.
And annoyingly magnetic.
He looks at the clock again. Fifteen minutes. “Hey kiddo,” he calls out, “coat on. We’re heading out soon.”
Li’l Petey perks up and skips over to where his coat is, tugging it on while humming to himself.
He needs to do a better job at treating his burn, but he’s in a time crunch and Petey can deal with it after the appointment at the school. He’ll have a lot more time there to treat it properly, maybe he’ll even go see the nurse about it as well.
Petey’s fingers tap anxiously against the countertop after putting two pieces of bread in the toaster. The two of them need to have some semblance of breakfast this morning so that Petey can answer in the positive when the doctor asks him if his son’s eaten today. He looks over at the recipe cards still splayed out across the counter when he was trying to decide what to attempt this morning, the top one splattered with pink batter and an underlined title in his mother's swirled handwriting.
He doesn’t want to think about it — about her. Or about her will and those final words urging him to learn to bake, to find some connection to her, to try.
He is trying.
But before he can sink deeper into that thought, there is a loud, deliberate knock at the front door.
He freezes.
The knock comes again. Heavy, slow, familiar.
Petey’s gut twists. Dread swells inside his chest as he wipes his hands on a dish towel and crosses from the kitchen through the living room, brushing past the broken guitar on the coffee table. The same guitar that met its fateful end the night he got kicked out of the band. Hopefully, he can fix it.
He doesn’t have the resources to buy a new one right now, and he’s definitely not plucking out the acoustic guitar in his bedroom. That one is too valuable to risk exposing to his occasional anger outlets.
He opens the door without hesitation, but soon comes to wish he ignored the sound altogether.
His father stands there in a sharp suit, but that is merely a simple accessory to his cold grin. A presence like oil in water. He must be planning to con someone again. Poor unsuspecting soul.
For a long moment, neither of them say anything. The tension drapes over them like a weighted blanket.
Then the older one of the two tilts his head, his eyes sweeping to the keys and wallet in Petey’s hand. “Going somewhere?”
Petey’s jaw clenches.
His father steps forward just enough to invade the threshold but not enough to cross the line. He’s adapted, he knows the boundaries he can’t weasel his way out of. Petey is smart, if not tempered, and that is the one thing he can’t stand. He knows the laws just as well as his father does. It’s just unfortunate they’re on opposite sides for this opinion.
His son would get so much farther in life if he caved to the devil — even just for a day. The smirk on Petey’s father widens, smug and cruel. “I see. Doctor’s appointment, isn’t it? Big day. It must be very important if you’re putting on that ridiculous act again.”
There is no act, at least not one Petey’s going to let his father ever see. A danger lurks beneath the surface with that one, and he can’t risk the truth coming out. No one can ever know, and he justifies his conscience with the argument that everything he’s doing is for his son. Secrecy is what is keeping Li’l Petey from being taken away from him.
Realistically speaking, however, if she were still here, Grace would know what is going on. But this is because she’s the only one in the world Petey has ever completely trusted. She’d offer guidance if he needed it, and Petey honestly believes she’d help him expand the lie just for the sake of keeping his son out of the clutches of his father.
Now if only he could remember the name he’s using.
Petey bites the inside of his cheek, fighting the instinct to slam the door in his face. “I don’t have time for this.”
But his father continues, leaning lazily against the doorframe, as if he owns the place. “You know, son, I remember when you used to be punctual. A follower of the rules. A good kid. Back when you had a real job. The band, do you remember that? When you weren’t hiding behind small pipsqueaks who don’t even respect you at all.”
His words are acid, deliberate and slow, designed to crawl under his son’s skin. Petey can hear the toaster click in the kitchen and the smell of smoke drifting through the air. His heart is pounding, his defenses starting to malfunction, fail him even.
“You know,” his father continues on, “the court takes punctuality very seriously when it comes to matters of custody. Even if you’re a little late, it reflects poorly.”
Petey’s tail bristles.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he says, his voice steady, unknowingly trying to mimic Greg’s from a few days ago.
He moves to shut the front door, but his father is faster. A foot wedges between the door and the frame. “Oh don’t be like that,” his father croons, “I just wanted to check in and make sure my grandson is in good hands. I’m checking to make sure he’s not being raised in a dump by someone who got kicked out of his own band.”
Petey’s hands are shaking now; he needs to keep calm, he doesn’t need to start a verbal bear attack to prove his point. All he needs to do is get Li’l Petey and leave, hide away at the doctor’s office until his father gives up on badgering him.
At least for today.
In the background, the smoke gets more prominent, and Petey knows that he needs to tend to it soon before a fire starts. Burnt toast, perfect.
He turns his head to glance down the hall where Li’l Petey is now standing in the doorway, clutching one of his toys with a curious expression on his face.
Unfortunately, that is all his father needs to see. “I see he’s awake,” he says, voice dropping just enough to wade in the pool of mockery.
Petey turns back, protectiveness overriding any doubt for a fleeting second; it’s just enough. “Get out,” he says, and this time his voice cracks like glass.
But his father merely steps back, looking satisfied that he’s won the battle and is on his way to winning the war. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to make you late or anything, son.”
And then he is gone, and Petey slams the door with intentions of catching the end of his father’s tail but still missing it anyways. He locks the damn thing, then double locks it.
The sound of the front door slamming is sharp, metallic, echoing far louder in Petey’s ears than it should have. He stands there, hand still on the lock, eyes glazed over as if time has stopped. The air in the house feels heavier now, the quiet after his father’s departure deafening. He’s never heard silence quite this loud. It isn’t peaceful — it is hollow, gutted, like the outer rim of a hurricane.
His stomach twists with a strange nausea — not from hunger, but from the too familiar churn of pressure and bitterness sitting just under his ribs. Slowly, he turns and walks back through the living room to re-enter the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast is thick in the air — acrid and sour, a stink that clings to the curtains and sneaks into the linen of his hoodie. So much for the second attempt at a perfect breakfast. It had been sitting here on full power while he was over there at the front door trying not to turn his father into mincemeat and get another court of law filed against him.
The blackening of the toast mirrors the unraveling of this morning: past saving, and will fall apart even more should Petey even lay a finger on it.
The toaster gives a soft tick as Petey turns it off to cool, indifferent to his situation.
Petey steps towards it, half hoping the toast has somehow improved. It hasn’t; the two slices are blackened, their edges curled and brittle like parchment scorched by fire. He reaches in and plucks one slice free, only for the corner to snap off in his fingers, crumbling to charcoal dust that flecks onto the counter and his wrist.
He stares at it, silent before picking up a butter knife and beginning to scrape at the surface, more out of habit than hope. The knife grates against the toast with a dry, hollow rasp, sending more black flakes scattering like ashes onto a dented metal plate. He scrubs harder, letting his jaw tense, letting the ugly sound of metal on burnt bread scrape against the buzzing in his ears. Still useless, the bread is done for.
He stops, knife hovering mid-air, and sets it down with a clatter. His hand rests heavily on the counter. The muscles in his arms are trembling.
Petey lets out a slow breath through his nose, and another. Then he squeezes his eyes shut.
It isn’t about the toast.
It never was.
He opens his eyes and looks around the kitchen. Dishes from the failed strawberry danish attempt are still soaking in a chipped enamel bowl. A forgotten timer still blinks at zero. The fridge hums softly, scuffed and covered in fading magnets, one of which holds a wrinkled drawing of a stick-figure cat and kitten holding hands beneath a sun with scribbled yellow rays.
It was supposed to be a normal morning. Just a school day, just toast. A quick appointment at the doctor’s office, a safety check, maybe some condescending questions — but doable. And now it all feels like it is balancing on a wire that might snap at any second.
He hates that his father has this kind of power over him. That after all these years, the old cat can still walk into a room and make Petey feel like a worthless, scrappy teenager again — like a kid with a bad temper and a worse reputation, incapable of being taken seriously, incapable of being a real father.
Petey sniffs once, sharp and quiet. He turns and glances towards the living room.
Li’l Petey is curled on the couch, chattering quietly to himself, the muffled thwack of his little hand slapping toys together echoing in the otherwise heavy silence. His backpack is zipped and ready, his fur combed. He was waiting for breakfast, he was trusting his papa.
And Petey feels like he is barely holding it together with masking tape and a dull butter knife.
He looks back at the toast. Burnt, bitter. But it is something, it has to be enough.
Petey picks up the slices and wraps them in a paper towel, then crams them into a napkin. They smell awful, and his stomach clenches again, but he doesn’t flinch this time. He just pockets the toast like someone pocketing regret.
He walks slowly to the front door. The air is staler here now, like it has soaked in his father’s presence. The house feels small again, trapped.
A place his mother once lived in should never feel like this.
Li’l Petey perks up and scrambles over when he sees his papa, backpack swinging on his little shoulders. Petey crouches down and scoops him up, pressing the kitten against his chest. For a moment, he just holds him there without saying a word. He’s not even thinking of anything clear. He’s just holding on.
He stands, unlocks the front door, and steps into the cold morning. The air is damp, the sky overcast, and everything smells vaguely like wet stone and ash.
Petey shuts the door behind them. The lock clicks again — same sound, but this time it feels less like security and more like isolation. He adjusts the kitten on his hip, grips the burnt toast tighter in his pocket, and starts walking towards his car.
He doesn’t look back; there isn’t anything worth back there to see. Not yet, anyways.
When he gets to the vehicle, Petey tugs open the car door with a groan that matches his own as the rusty hinge protests. The old thing sits squat and sullen at the curb like an aging rock star past his prime — paint scuffed from multiple street parkings, bumper dents from from a few too many overconfident beliefs that he can squeeze into those tight spaces. A faded sticker on the back window acts as a time capsule for when he took the stage every night. One of the tail lights is still cracked from that run-in with a garbage bin last winter. The whole car smells faintly of coffee, dusty speaker wires, and the vinyl of old guitar cases that have long since been evicted.
Li’l Petey is already pulling at the back door when his papa reaches him. “I wanna do it,” he says, his little claws scrabbling at the handle.
“You can’t even reach it, kiddo,” Petey says with a soft chuckle in his throat as he flips the lock and pops the door open.
He helps the kitten scramble up into his booster seat — an older one, not the worst, but with duct tape wrapped around one of the plastic arms and crayon marks that never fully came out. Petey reaches over him, careful but practiced, pulling the seatbelt through the slots and snapping it in place with a firm click. He gives it a gentle tug to check the fit, then ruffles the fur behind Li’l Petey’s ears.
“Alright, breakfast,” he says, reaching into his hoodie pocket and pulling out the singed napkin.
He unfolds it slowly, like it might reveal something edible beneath the kitchen’s version of a blanket. “Gourmet stuff,” he says with a voice like the desert, handing his son the less awful-looking half of the toast to his son. “Eat while we drive, you’ve got a big day of sitting in a cold room pretending you’re not bored out of your skull.”
Li’l Petey sniffs the toast and wrinkles his nose. “It smells like fireplace crackers.”
“Yeah, well,” Petey hums, shutting the back door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Fireplace crackers are a delicacy in some places. Probably.”
He slumps into the driver’s seat, which squeaks like an old accordion, and shuts the door behind him. The interior is a museum of clutter — old coffee cups in the cup holders, a busted air freshener shaped like a pine tree dangling from the mirror, and a small pile of scratched up CDs tucked into the center console: old bands a guy at a vintage record shop would have sold to him.
He exhales slowly, both hands on the wheel and then closes his eyes. He is fine, it’s just a simple check up.
Everything is going to be okay.
Then he turns the key.
The engine sputters to life with a coughing roar, headlights flickering as if the car is waking from a reluctant nap. The radio crackles on, spitting out static before settling on some talk show Petey doesn’t recognize. He flicks the dial to a station that is playing music with an irritated flick.
The car rolls forward with a slight jolt, tires bumping over the cracked edge of the curb as they pull into the quiet gray morning. The neighborhood still wears its half-asleep look — mailboxes stuffed with coupons, lawns scattered with dew-slicked leaves. Petey steers one-handed, the other propped against the window frame, his elbow resting lazily on the door.
He doesn’t park in the driveway — never has. Something about it makes the house feel too permanent, like he has roots there. And Petey has learned, painfully and with time, that roots are a vulnerability.
Pulling out into the main roads of the city, he drives by the laundromat — still boarded up after last month’s water pipe burst. Then comes the flower shop with the new and improved Open sign blinking half-heartedly in the window, and the alleyway that always smells like old fryer grease from the fish and chips place. Petey’s eyes linger on the graffiti nearby — some of it being his from years ago, half covered by age and city-funded paint jobs.
And then he sees it: the bakery.
It sits neat and golden in the soft morning light, window panes fogged just enough to feel warm. Someone has drawn hearts and smiling cupcakes on a chalkboard outside the front door. Inside, he can see the baker’s silhouette walking past the front windows, but because of the fog, it distorts the figure. He’s moving with careful precision, getting out a box and some ribbon that can be used as a halo if desired. It’s just him in there, and it looks incredibly peaceful.
Petey stares a moment too long.
Then he looks away.
“Are you eating that toast, or just inhaling it?” He calls to the backseat, forcing his voice back into something light.
“I’m trying,” Li’l Petey says with exaggerated concentration. Petey can hear the crunch as the kitten gnaws on it. It doesn’t even last two seconds in his mouth, the bitten off piece shooting across to the other side of the backseat. “Blegh, it tastes like cardboard.”
Petey glances at him in the rearview and raises a brow. “Come on, kiddo. It can’t be that bad.”
He takes a bite of his own half just to prove a point, but he then immediately spits it out into a napkin and coughs. “Okay, wow. Nope, that is just awful. Borderline offensive, even. This toast owes us both an apology.”
Li’l Petey bursts out in laughter from the backseat. “I told you.”
Petey chuckles, short and tired. “Yeah, well,” he says, turning left onto a new street, “at least it’s artisanal cardboard.”
They both giggle at that, and for a second, the weight in Petey’s chest lifts.
The city begins to gather around them — taller buildings, worn down strip malls with neon signs half-lit, the buzzing hum of traffic creeping closer as the work day begins. He switches hands on the wheel, keeping one hand there while the other moves and flexes on his knee, nerves twitching like static. He hates driving into the city; it makes him feel like a small part in a massive machine, and he never trusts machines to keep from chewing him up.
They reach the squat building that houses the doctor’s office with one minute to spare. It has a faded sign out front with peeling letters, and the lot is already half full.
Petey pulls into a spot near the back, under the shade of a dying tree whose leaves cling to the branches like they are afraid to fall. He shuts off the engine, the old car shuddering like it might not start again. He hesitates for a moment, fingers still curled around the key.
The silence that follows rings a little too loud.
Then he lets out a breath and steps out into the cold air. It smells faintly of smog and melting asphalt. The city’s perfume.
He stretches his back with a soft groan, and walks to the backseat. He opens the door and unbuckles Li’l Petey gently, lifting him up before setting him down on the pavement.
Immediately, his son reaches for his hand and Petey takes it without hesitation.
It’s a warm, familiar grip. Soft fur in his hand, something grounding.
Together, they walk towards the building’s glass doors, the sound of their footsteps muffled by wind and the steady hum of city traffic behind them.
The bell above the clinic door jingles as Petey steps in, a quiet mechanical chime that barely masks the shuffle of his old sneakers across the linoleum floor — how inviting. If they aren’t going to paint the walls, then at least change this to wood. He holds Li’l Petey’s small hand in his own, his grip a little tighter than usual. The lobby of the doctor’s office is exactly as he expects it to be — worn, sterile, and a little too cold.
He has to give his mother all the flowers; Petey can’t even imagine how she managed to stay sane in this environment all day every day.
The paint on the walls has chipped even more since last time, and the corners near the baseboards are peeling into little curls. A faded mural of something now distorted on the far wall has since lost its luster.
It makes him think of the bakery again. The walls there must have once looked like this, dull and tired, until Greg had scrubbed them clean and painted over them with the softest color Petey didn’t even know existed.
Grace would’ve loved that bakery.
Petey wishes he had more time to think about it — how someone can change a space just by caring — but they are cutting it close.
Too close.
He approaches the front desk, the receptionist barely glancing up as she gestures towards the clipboard on the counter since she’s currently on the phone. He signs Li’l Petey’s name with a pen that has stopped working and hands it back, trying not to let the nerves rising in his throat show. After the exchange, he places a guiding hand on Li’l Petey’s back.
“Let’s sit over there,” he says, nodding towards a cluster of chairs by a thirty-looking plant with dusty leaves.
They make their way over, and Petey crouches to help his son climb into a seat. As he does, he suddenly feels a familiar pressure in his gut — the one that reminds him he hasn’t used the bathroom in all the chaos that morning. Great timing.
“You good right here, kid?” Petey asks, brushing a bit of burnt toast crumbs off of his coat.
“Yup,” Li’l Petey nods, swinging his legs.
“I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere.”
“Okay, Papa.”
Petey gives him one last look before darting off down the hallway to the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him with a low, metallic clunk that echoes too loudly in the small tiled space. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes with a faint, off-kilter hum — just slightly enough out of rhythm to irritate, like a thought he can’t finish. Petey stands there for a moment, just inside the door, his hand still resting on the handle as if letting go means he’d be pulled back out into everything. Into being composed, into having answers.
But here, he can pause.
The tile under his feet is cold through the soles of his sneakers. A beige kind of institutional. Too clean, too hollow. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant and something metallic — old pipes, maybe. The kind of bathroom smell that carries memory. School hallways, late hospital visits.
His mother laying on a bed with a vase of flowers next to her.
He moves towards the sink, eyes locking with the mirror out of instinct, then immediately wishing that he hadn’t looked.
The face staring back at him looks like he hasn’t slept right in a week. Maybe longer. His fur is slightly rumpled, his eyes sunken and shadowed. A normal look if he had been out playing at a venue all night long. There are crumbs on his shirt and a smudge of soot on his cheek he hadn’t even noticed from the toast incident earlier. He wipes at it absently but only manages to smear it further across his cheekbone.
He turns on the tap. The faucet coughs before the water comes — first a spurt of rust colored liquid, then a steady stream of cold that gleams under the buzzing light. Petey cups his hands under it and splashes his face, hissing softly as the icy sting hits the skin underneath his fur.
His fingers grip the porcelain edge of the sink, holding him upright with his head bowed, water dripping from his whiskers into the basin below.
Petey’s doing fine. He got him up, he got him here even if it wasn’t exactly on time. He didn’t forget anything.
But the thoughts don’t reassure him. They are just thin armor over a deeper ache. Because what if it isn’t enough? What if all of this — this constant scrambling, this patchwork parenting stitched together with burnt toast and old guilt — what if it isn’t actually holding anything together?
What if it is just pretending?
He clenches his jaw and looks up again. The mirror doesn’t lie; he looks like someone pretending.
There are old fears clawing at the edges of his ribs, the ones that whisper things he hates hearing in his own voice: how he was never meant to be a parent, that he isn’t the type of person who stays. The truth that, in the end, all he turns out to be is chaos. The wreckage that people pick up after a devastating storm.
He looks down again, forcing the thoughts away with the kind of practiced effort that comes from years of needing to stay upright when everything else screams collapse. He runs water over his hands, watching it glide between his fingers like a tether he can’t quite hold.
He thinks about the toast; the stupid toast. Blackened like charcoal as it makes his entire kitchen like smoke, and there he is scraping it anyway — pretending it can still be good. That it is enough to count as breakfast.
Petey thinks about the silence in the kitchen. There was no one to ask if the milk was still good, no one to notice he forgot to eat because he was in such a rush this morning. There was no one to see the crumbs on the floor or to make sure Li’l Petey had put on his coat correctly. No one but him.
The only saving grace he has right now are the desserts that will hopefully be waiting for him at school — and the celebration with his music students that comes with it.
In a way, Petey’s looking forward to seeing how the baker’s desserts taste. The ones in the display case did look quite good.
He makes a mental note to let Li’l Petey have one as a treat for coming to the doctor’s office without a fuss.
He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose, then lets the breath out slowly, willing his face back into neutral. Petey then dries his hands on his jeans, not even bothering with a paper towel, and opens the bathroom door.
As he walks back into the waiting room, someone is being led into one of the exam rooms. Petey doesn’t look back to see who it is, chalking it up to being just another parent or someone who is genuinely sick — another fish in the sea that won’t matter to him in the long run of things.
He makes it back to their seats and blinks when he sees Li’l Petey happily munching on a slice of pie. His brows furrow. “Where did you get that?”
Li’l Petey’s cheeks are full as he smiles, not a care in the world about manners. “A really nice guy gave it to me. I told him that my stomach was doing flip-flops and he gave this to me to make me feel better. It’s working really well.”
Petey blinks again; he looks around the waiting room but doesn’t see anyone new, just the same folks who have been sitting there since before the two of them arrived.
“A nice guy, huh?” He says, slumping down into the chair next to his son, exhaustion curling his spine. “Guess I owe him one, if by some chance we run into him somehow.”
“It’s really good, Papa,” Li’l Petey says, offering the half-eaten slice out to him from the pastry box. “Do you want a bite?”
Petey hesitates, then takes the slice of pie. “Sure, kid.”
He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, his eyes closing immediately.
It is warm; the blueberry is sweet but tart, and the bacon is crispy and smoky, the salt cutting through the sugar like a memory. It doesn’t just taste good — it tastes familiar, like something his mother would’ve made. Like something that should’ve been eaten on a lazy morning in a sunny kitchen, not in the middle of a clinic waiting room after a day like this.
Blueberry and bacon are two flavors Petey never thought would mesh well together, but now, he can’t imagine them in any dish on their own anymore. They belong together.
“Woah,” he says, his voice barely breaking the sound barrier.
“I told you,” Li’l Petey says, practically beaming.
Petey chuckles softly, the taste having filled some part of his soul with sunshine. “I’m pretty sure that pie just saved us, kiddo.”
“From what?”
Petey tousles his son’s fur, which earns him a high-pitched giggle in return. “From me having to explain that you skipped breakfast this morning.”
“I didn’t skip it though, I had pie.”
“Exactly,” Petey says, exhaling through his nose. “We’re going to say that with confidence.”
They sit in silence for a moment, both of them feeling a bit better. A little more grounded in the belief that everything will work out in the end.
Li’l Petey’s name is called not long after that.
The nurse — thin, kindly, and wearing scrubs patterned with cartoon frogs — gestures gently for them to follow her, clipboard in hand. Petey takes his son’s hand, and they walk single file down the hall, the floor’s speckled linoleum shining under the bright, buzzing lights. The smell of antiseptic and faint soap hang in the air, a familiar and uninviting aroma that clings to the walls. They pass one closed exam room door, the number plaque slightly askew, without noticing the quiet tension behind it.
He doesn’t know that the walls that wrap around him also wrap around someone else he never thought he’d have something in common with. He doesn’t know that just behind one door, someone is unraveling in a silence that mirrors his own. He just squeezes Li’l Petey’s hand a little tighter and walks past it, the scent of blueberry and bacon pie still ghosting at the edge of his senses.
The nurse leads them into an empty exam room with seafoam walls and a high window with slatted blinds filtering the daylight. The paper on the exam table crinkles softly under Li’l Petey as he climbs up onto it without being asked, swinging his feet back and forth, his heels knocking gently against the base.
The nurse offers Petey a polite nod and assures them the doctor will be in shortly before slipping out the door, closing it behind her with a metallic click. And then they are alone again.
The room buzzes softly with the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A poster on the wall details developmental milestones for children ages five to ten. Another displays cartoon fruits with smiling faces, reminding kids to drink water and eat balanced meals. Petey sits down on the stool beside the table, back hunched, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his coat.
Time crawls.
He steals a glance at his son, who is now counting the ceiling tiles quietly to himself, fingers twitching with each number. His heart aches with a mixture of love and exhaustion. There is always so much to think about: what Li’l Petey needs, what he can afford, what he can’t. What the world expects of him, and what the courts might decide.
What his father might still be planning behind his back.
His mind circles again to the burnt toast. If that stranger hadn’t given Li’l Petey that piece of pie, how would he have answered that inevitable question? He hates how grateful he feels. He hates how uncertain everything always is.
But he owes that stranger everything and then some.
The door opens with a soft creak.
The doctor enters — an older man, with kind but tired eyes and a thick folder tucked under his arm. He smiles gently and apologizes for the delay, mentioning that he has just come from giving a difficult diagnosis to another patient.
Petey nods, staying quiet.
Something about the doctor’s tone lingers — regret, fatigue, the echo of someone else’s heavy news still clinging to his voice — but he quickly turns his focus to Li’l Petey.
The questions come one after the other — routine, clinical. Petey has grown used to them by now: is his son sleeping regularly, eating three meals a day? Has he had any recent illnesses, injuries, signs of emotional distress? Does he appear cared for, is the home environment safe?
Petey does his best to answer each one steadily. When the inevitable question about breakfast surfaces, he feels a flicker of unease, but then remembers the slice of pie. And with a soft breath of relief, he answers in the positive. Yes, his son had breakfast this morning.
The doctor makes notes on his chart, glances at Li’l Petey’s vitals, does a few gentle checks — ears, throat, reflexes — and nods in approval. Everything looks normal; there are no concerns. Not today.
Petey nods, his shoulders subtly easing. It is like a door that has barely been holding shut and has just managed to hold out for another day. His father won’t be getting a call from the government this week like he was wanting. That small victory is enough to keep him going.
The doctor thanks them and then leaves; Petey scoops his son back into his arms, and together they walk out of the room. They pass the same room with the askew plaque from earlier with antiseptic trailing after them like a memory, but the door is open now to reveal an empty exam room. Whoever had been in there is gone.
They exit through the same waiting room which has thinned out since their arrival. The plant by the chair still droops a little to one side, leaves in need of water. Petey lets the automatic doors slide open before finally leaving the building.
The sun is warmer now, brighter. The city has shifted in tone — less sleepy from the cold, more alert. Cars buzz past with energy, and somewhere, someone is laughing. Petey guides his son off the curve and into the road of the parking lot so they can get to their car. It is still parked at the far edge of the lot, paint scuffed and windows stubborn.
He opens the back door and carefully helps his son into the car seat, tugging the straps into place with practiced precision. His fingers linger for a moment, checking the buckle one for more time before stepping back and shutting the door. The metallic thud rings out across the quiet lot.
Petey climbs into the driver’s seat, exhales slowly and starts the engine. The car coughs to life, the dashboard lights flickering to attention. He pulls out onto the road, his fingers loose on the steering wheel, letting the city unfold again.
He passes a bus stop where a teenager sits with a guitar case beneath his knees. The car rides past an elderly couple making their way towards a café down on the corner of the street. A group of construction workers are laughing near a food cart as steam from the grill curls into the sky. And then, just for a moment, he once again passes by the bakery.
The scent of bread and sugar lingers even through the closed windows. Petey’s eyes flicker towards it instinctively, but he doesn’t slow down.
He turns the corner and keeps going.
Eventually, the school comes into view — a red brick building nestled between two oaks that is willingly hiding all of his secrets. Children are just starting to enter through the doors, backpacks swinging, voices bright with morning chatter.
Petey parks along the curb, gets out, and opens the back door. Li’l Petey unbuckles himself before Petey can even reach for him, grinning wide, his hand already reaching up.
They walk towards the entrance together, their fingers interlaced.
The moment Petey steps into the school’s front office with Li’l Petey clutching his hand, a wave of calm, almost nostalgic warmth settles over him. The sharp contrast to the chaotic morning — the burnt toast, the locked door, his father’s surprise visit — hits him like a soft exhale.
The school smells faintly of pencil shavings, floor wax, and something vaguely sweet — maybe the baking from the cafeteria has wafted its way here through the air vents. Sunlight slants through the front windows, pooling gold across the linoleum, catches the edges of flyers and PTA posters tacked to the corkboard. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the distant chatter of children already and the squeak of rubber soles against the tile ground him.
This is different from the adrenaline that pumped through him while on stage — loud, hot, electric. That kind of thrill grabs him by the throat and doesn’t let go. But this? This is quieter, steady. It doesn’t erase the exhaustion in his bones, but it soothes it for a moment.
Petey gives a nod of greeting to the woman at the front desk. She waves back with a chipper smile, then pauses and glances down at a clipboard. Just as he and Li’l Petey are about to turn down the hall towards his classroom, her voice stops him.
She mentions a name — Dewey — and it takes a second before it registers. Petey blinks. Dewey, right. That’s the name he’s been trying to recall all morning. A precaution.
His makeshift safety net.
He turns back towards the desk, a breath catching in his throat — not from anxiety, but from relief. He approaches, and the woman points to the white pastry box with a ribbon taped shut across the top. The label is printed in a loopy script with no name; just sweetness, just right.
He gives a nod of gratitude and picks up the box, still warm to the touch, and murmurs a thank you. Then, with Li’l Petey trailing next to him, he makes his way down the corridor towards his classroom.
Room 213, the music room.
Inside, the air carries the subtle scent of old sheet music and dry-erase markers. The walls are lined with posters of rock bands that have since replaced the jazz legends hung up by the previous teacher. Below are bright construction paper displays of music notes and terminology, and a bulletin board covered in star-shaped cutouts with each student’s name. Various instruments line the walls in racks — ukuleles, tambourines, even a few battered guitars that Petey noticed right away on his first day teaching.
The floor is scuffed but clean, the chairs in a semi-circle around the large rug in the middle of the room. Petey’s desk sits in the corner, stacked with binders, a broken mug of pencils, and a collection of Li’l Petey’s drawings stuck to the side with magnets.
He sets the dessert box on the table near the whiteboard and carefully unties the homemade ribbon, opening it with the slow reverence of someone handling glass. Inside is an assortment of vanilla cupcakes, chocolate croissants, and lemon cookies all decorated with music motifs. Just as he ordered, and they’re all incredibly beautiful — as if that pesky baker gave each pastry attention and care. Perhaps that mutt does know what he’s doing.
Li’l Petey beams up at him as he tries to see over the edge of the table, balancing on the tips of his toes. “Can I help set them out, Papa?”
Smiling, Petey nods and they begin setting out the napkins and plates he’d bought yesterday on the table, always working well as a team. He’s not sure why he went out of his way to buy plates and napkins with his own dough, but something inside him screamed that it was effort worth giving.
After all, these kids weren’t the cause of his frustrations, his turmoil. They have no idea about what’s going on. They don’t even know that he’s faking his own name. The least Petey can do is treat them with decency instead of as babies.
The two of them are just finishing up when the school bell finally rings — sharp and clear, cutting through the air.
Petey moves to the door and opens it, letting in the soft shuffle of feet and the murmur of voices. One by the one, the kids file in, each greeting him with an enthusiastic “Good morning, Mr. Dewey!” or a sleepy wave. Their eyes immediately light up when they spot the table of treats, a few whispering in awe and nudging each other with grins.
Li’l Petey climbs up into his papa’s big chair at the desk with his legs swinging, smiling shyly at the class.
When everyone is inside and seated, Petey gently shuts the door. He turns to face them, arms crossing because he is in no way folding his hands in front of him — that is way too damn proper. It’s disgusting, honestly. His expression is calm, but behind his eyes is a slow-working machine of worry and quiet resolve.
He tells them — through small interruptions of excited screams — why the desserts are here. A motivation, and a celebration. Something sweet to carry them through the next few weeks. Their class band, self-named and self-assembled, has been rehearsing nonstop for the upcoming battle of the bands, and he knows how hard they’ve been working. Petey reminds them of what is at stake — not just a trophy, but a real prize. Money, a path forward.
What he doesn’t tell them is how badly he needs this path forward; how much is riding on it. That it might be the ticket to getting his son out of this city, out from under his father’s looming presence. A fresh start, a safe home.
Instead, he waves a hand towards the table, letting the smiles bloom as the kids jump up to choose their dessert.
He waits until the rush is over before he takes one for himself — the lemon cookie that took him forever to decide the flavor on. Petey looks at it for a moment, then takes a bite.
The flavors hit him hard — tart lemon melting into the crumble of the cookie, buttery dough crumbling like memory against his tongue. It is as if someone has cracked open a window to his childhood, letting the smell of his mother’s kitchen drift in — her laughter, her apron dusted with flour, the warmth that had once existed before everything had cracked.
It is the same feeling as this morning at the doctor’s office, but now he has time to sit with it.
And it is almost too much to bear.
But he swallows, breathes deep, and lets the kids’ laughter bring him back.
They are already talking excitedly about lyrics, about riffs and solos and what they want to wear for their big performance. Petey just watches, eyes flicking over their animated faces.
All they can seem to agree on right now is how incredible the desserts are. And against himself, Petey can’t help but share the same opinion. The desserts are impeccable. Almost makes him want to go back and order from there again.
Suddenly, his breath catches as a thought crosses his mind and he’s glad he’s already swallowed otherwise he’s sure he would’ve choked by now. He needs a second opinion, one that’ll confirm this idea is crazy stupid.
Taking a deep breath, Petey tells the kids he’ll be right back and picks up Li’l Petey before walking to the door of the classroom and exiting through it, closing it behind him.
Petey’s footsteps echo dully against the linoleum floors as he walks quietly through the sun-streaked halls of the school with the weight of Li’l Petey tucked against his side. Hopefully, his kids can prove not to be wild animals for once and stay seated for once. They better not find the hidden stash of drumsticks in the supply cabinet; he’ll know if they do — sound carries quite easily through these halls.
The low hum of fluorescent lights match the thrum of nerves under his fur and skin. The walls are lined with pastel-colored student artwork — some vibrant and messy, others neat and meticulous. All of it is oddly calming.
The scent of pencil shavings, floor wax, and crayons mix together — so different from the adrenaline-fueled air backstage at a gig. That air always buzzed with electricity, the smell of sweat, heat, and anticipation. This however, is quieter. Softer, even. He can feel the way the hallway holds memories: forgotten lunches, late passes, whispered crushes. Here, time doesn’t race. It waits.
“Come on, come on… I can’t leave the little gremlins unsupervised for too long.” He says under his breath, eyes scanning the closed doors ahead of him.
Li’l Petey gives a tiny hum in concentration against his chest, pawing at his hoodie strings.
Petey rounds a corner and — there. A plain beige door with a crooked plastic sign that has seen better days name tagging the room as the teacher’s lounge. His breath catches for a second; right, this is the one.
He stops, adjusts his hold on the kitten, and takes a slow inhale through his nose. His pulse steadies, and then he knocks twice.
Why he decides to knock when he’s considered faculty, Petey doesn’t know. The clearance is there, he has the permission to just waltz right in there and grab whatever unhealthy breakfast item there is for the day. Though he doesn’t know who made those, at least with the pastries back in his classroom, he can trust the quality those had been made with.
Maybe it’s because his whole life inside this building is a lie. Nothing about him except the way he looks is the truth. He doesn’t even deserve this opportunity, but since he’s holding on tight to it, he can’t let it go now.
Not if it means getting to keep Li’l Petey under his care.
There is a short pause before the door creaks open and Big Jim peeks out, mid-bite of a banana. His round eyes squint in confusion. “Dewey? What are you doing here, don’t you have a class right now?”
Petey sighs like the weight of the past week has just settled on his shoulders all at once. “Yeah, I do. But — I just — I gotta say this before I lose my nerve.”
Big Jim blinks and takes another bite of the banana without breaking eye contact.
He pauses, glances down the hallway, and then looks back at Big Jim. “Okay, so, do you remember how I’ve been trying to bake those recipes from that list? Well, I tried my hand at it again this morning and it just turned into a crime scene of a murdered strawberry cheese danish. Total failure. I mean, I had to pivot and serve inedible burnt toast instead. It still smells like singed hope in my kitchen.”
Big Jim makes a face of polite secondhand horror. “How bad of a crime scene are we talking here?”
Petey winces. “The strawberries and cheese filling were scorched, and the dough was somehow overcooked and undercooked at the same time. I burned my damn hand trying to get it right.”
Li’l Petey offers a wide-eyed blink of innocent agreement.
Petey continues, voice quicker now. “So I panicked and ordered backup desserts for class because I have decided that I am not attempting any more of those recipes. But then, I taste one of the cookies I ordered and suddenly I’m reconsidering that retirement.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and his voice softened. “It tasted like home, like something I would have had when the sun still shined in the kitchen.”
Big Jim leans his shoulder against the doorframe, the banana forgotten in his hand now.
“So I decided that I’m going to do something dumb. Or maybe genius — I can’t tell yet,” Petey says, “I decided I’m going to go back to the bakery and have the baker make the desserts on these recipe cards for me. Obviously I can’t do it, I’ll burn whatever building I’m in to the ground.”
Big Jim blinks, his eyes shifting. “You want to ask a total stranger to bake your recipes so you don’t burn your house down?”
“Yes,” Petey brings his hand out of his hoodie pocket and pinches the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t told Big Jim — anyone, really — that those recipe cards were his mother’s. That he is doing this for her. “And it’s ridiculous, it’s absurd. So I need you to say it out loud so I can snap out of it and get back to my actual job teaching gremlins how not to weaponize tambourines.”
He waits, but Big Jim doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t say anything yet, just stands there against the doorframe crossing his arms while making sure his banana doesn’t fall out of the peel.
Petey frowns. “Well?”
Big Jim lets out a slow breath. “You want me to lie to you, Dewey?”
Petey’s ears twitch. That name; it hits like a ping of clarity and guilt all at once. Like a rubber band being pulled and then letting go to slap hard against his thigh. He winces, then shrugs.
Big Jim continues, voice gentle but unwavering. “It’s not a crazy idea, it’s a great idea. You felt something that mattered, Dewey. Something that made you remember what it felt like to have just one hour of sunshine, and why you still care. That’s not a sign to run away, but to walk towards whatever is calling you there.”
Petey stares at him before looking away and chewing the inside of his cheek. He hates when Big Jim makes sense, echoes something his mother would have said to him.
“And something seems missing from your life. I’m not sure what it is, but the only other thing you’ve ever talked so excitedly about is music. Maybe that means you should chase after it,” Big Jim adds.
There is a tight paue before Petey scowls and hands over Li’l Petey to his coworker, making sure the trade off was still safe even though it is last minute. ”You’re subbing for my class,” he says, turning on his heel.
“What? Wait, Dewey—!”
“I’ll be back before they turn the drum kit into a trebuchet,” Petey calls over his shoulder. “Tell them I’m picking up inspiration. Or a sugar coma. Whatever is the most convincing.”
And just like that, he is out the door and striding across the front parking lot. The city wind tugs at his hoodie as he gets into his car, inserts his key into the ignition, and pulls out of the parking space.
Petey eases the car out of the school’s entire parking lot, the engine grumbling softly beneath his hands, a sound that feels both grounding and maddening in its constancy. The sun is hanging high enough now to cast the streets in a honeyed haze, gliding every windshield and brick wall it touches. His fur catches the light through the open driver’s side window, and the wind tugs at his whiskers, cool but not cold — an almost spring-like gentleness that doesn’t match the knot in his chest.
The city unfolds around him in layered movement — cars sliding past in staggered rhythm, pedestrians drifting across crosswalks with grocery bags and coffee cups in hand. A cyclist speeds by on his right, the click of gears and faint whir of wheels briefly drowning out the engine’s hum. Petey keeps his eyes on the road, but his gaze snags on details without his permission — the uneven sway of laundry hanging from a fourth-story balcony, the warm amber glow of a tiny bookstore tucked between two looming office buildings, the smell of street-roasted peanuts that hit him at a red light and instantly remind him of county fairs from years ago.
The streets are wide here, but every turn pulls him deeper into older parts of the city, where buildings lean close together and the architecture trades sharp modern lines for chipped brick and painted wood. A hand-painted sign for a vintage record shop sways lazily in the breeze, probably founded in the seventies.
Petey’s grip on the wheel is steady but too tight. His tail flicks against the seat in small, impatient snaps — more from the thoughts curling in his mind than the traffic. Each stoplight becomes a kind of spotlight, trapping him with himself.
He tells himself it is just a delivery; just toast and a kid in a passenger seat. But the truth simmering underneath his ribs is heavier: he hates the idea of walking into that bakery and having to admit, even without words, that he needs help. That he can’t keep spinning all of these plates by himself. Pride bristles at the thought, but right beneath that bristle is something much softer — a small, stubborn flicker of hope he refuses to name yet. The idea that maybe, if the baker is part of this, it won’t feel quite so impossible.
The closer he gets, the slower the city seems to move. Sidewalk trees arch overhead now, dappling the pavement with leaf shadows. The scent of the bakery reaches him before the building itself comes into view — warm, yeasty sweetness carried on the air. The green and white sign emerges around the bend, its paint slightly faded but still inviting.
He slows to pull into a spot a few doors down, the car rolling to a stop with a faint groan of the brakes. For a moment, he stays put. The tick-tick of the cooling engine fills the quiet, mingling with the faint sounds of conversation from the sidewalk.
Petey steps out of the car, the door giving a soft but decisive thunk as it closes behind him. The late afternoon air greets him with the warmth of sun-baked pavement masked by the cold weather, edged with the faint sweetness drifting from just ahead. His sneakers scuff lightly against the cracked road as he adjusts his hoodie and slides his hands into his pockets, more for something to do than for comfort.
The streets here are quieter than the ones he’d driven down — a slower heartbeat of the city. A couple walks past with the same white box from the doctor’s office with still-warm pastries inside, the steam ghosting through the cracks in the lid. Somewhere above, a wind chime clinks lazily, each note floating down between the buildings.
The bakery comes into full view now, its green and white sign swinging gently, as though nodding him toward the door. The window is wide and inviting, but Petey stops just short of the entrance, his hands tightening inside his pockets.
Through the glass, he sees him — the baker. He is moving between the counter and the back kitchen with unhurried precision, a tray balanced on one arm and while the other adjusts the placement of each pastry. Flour dusts his forearms and the front of his apron, and the sunlight catches in the edges of his fur, making it look like it holds its own quiet glow.
Petey lingers in that stillness, the world outside dimming in importance. There is a rhythm to the baker’s movements — efficient, yet soft, like he treats every cookie, every tart, like something worth handling with care. Petey feels his chest pull in a way he doesn’t like to admit, a quiet tugging awareness that reminds him this isn’t just about toast or deliveries.
This place hasn’t changed since he was last here putting in his order, and the first thought he has about that is how his mother would absolutely adore this place. He wonders if the bakery was around while she was still alive; maybe she got to taste the sunshine created here before he ever did.
It screams Grace and everything she loves.
The baker turns slightly, wiping his hands on a towel. For a moment, Petey thinks he’s been caught watching, but the baker’s gaze stays on the tray in front of him. Petey lets himself look just a second longer — at the curve of the baker’s jaw, the way his ears tilt slightly forward as though he is listening to the hum of the oven itself.
Then Petey exhales, shakes himself once, and pulls the door open.
The bell above gives a clear, delicate chime as he steps in, and the warmth of the bakery wraps around him instantly — heat from the ovens, the heavy sweetness of sugar and butter, and that almost intoxicating scent of fresh pastry bread.
The baker looks up at the sound, brown eyes meeting his, and suddenly Petey can smell the cinnamon radiating from the baker’s hands.