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Summary
There’s a folding table set up outside Classroom C lined with bakery boxes. Real ones. White cardboard tied with twine. Blueberry muffins the size of softballs. Croissants. Something glazed and citrusy. A cardboard carrier of coffee cups.
A cluster of recruits hover nearby, trying to look casual and failing.
Eddie glances at their academy shirts, still too stiff from being new. “What’s the occasion?” he asks.
One of them straightens. “Oh—it’s Muffin Guy.”
Eddie pauses. “I’m sorry. It’s who?”
“Muffin Guy,” another recruit says, like that should mean something.
Eddie waits.
They exchange looks.
“They say he brings stuff the first week,” someone explains. “Not every day. Just… sometimes.”
“He an instructor?” Eddie asks.
A few shake their heads. “Nah. He’s a firefighter.”
“From where?”
Shrugs.
“He never says.”