Page 10 of Run Omega Run
I smiled at the memory. Dylan's attempt at baking had resulted in cookies sweet enough to make our teeth ache, but the children had eaten them anyway, declaring them the best dessert they'd ever had.
The first batch emerged from the oven golden and fragrant, small rectangular cakes that would be perfect for individual sales. I set them on the windowsill to cool and immediately started on a second batch, working quickly while the oven held its heat. The kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and butter, warm and welcoming in a way that made the cracked walls and leaky ceiling seem less important.
"These smell like heaven," Becky said, appearing in the doorway with Manny's hand in hers. She'd been reading to the other children in the front room, her patient voice weaving stories that transported them far from their daily worries.
"One tray is for selling," I explained, pulling the second batch from the oven. "The other is for us." She smiled.
As the cakes cooled, I gathered the rest of my modest inventory. Three jars of preserves that I'd made from the bruised fruit Bobby had brought us last month. There were strawberry, apricot, and a mixed berry that had turned out well despite my fears about the quality of the ingredients. From our struggling garden came a handful of vegetables: carrots that were small but sweet, onions with strong green tops, and a few tomatoes that had ripened despite the poor soil.
The rickety table we dragged outside had seen better decades. One leg was shorter than the others, requiring a folded piece of cardboard wedged underneath to keep it level, and the surface bore scars from years of children's crafts and kitchen prep work. But it was what we had, and I arranged my wares on it with as much care as if I were setting up a display in the finest store window.
The cakes went in the center, arranged on our few uncracked plates. Then the preserves flanked them on one side, their hand-written labels cheerful despite the wobbly lettering. The vegetables completed the display, their colors bright against the weathered wood of the table.
I settled into the folding chair I'd brought out and waited for customers.
The street that ran past our orphanage had once been busy, part of a neighborhood where families shopped at local markets and children walked to school in small groups. But the earthquake had changed everything. Half the businesses had never reopened, their owners either unable to afford repairs or simply unwilling to rebuild in an area that still felt unstable. The school had been condemned and torn down. Many of the families had moved away, seeking steadier ground in other parts of Shaker City.
Those who remained moved differently now, their steps quick and purposeful, their faces turned down toward the broken sidewalk instead of up toward their neighbors. People hurried past my little table without a glance, their minds occupied with their own struggles to stay afloat.
Mrs Chen, who lived three blocks over and had lost her husband in the quake, paused long enough to admire the cakes but shook her head apologetically when I quoted the price. "They look beautiful, dear," she said, her voice genuinely regretful. "But I can't manage extras right now."
A construction worker stopped to buy one jar of strawberry preserves, counting out coins from his pocket with careful precision. "For my daughter," he explained. "She's been asking for something sweet."
An elderly man with a walker examined the vegetables thoroughly before selecting two carrots and an onion, pressingthe money into my palm with hands that trembled slightly. "These will make a good soup," he said.
By the time the sun began to sink toward the horizon, I had sold three items. The coins in my hand totaled just over five dollars. It was nowhere near enough to make a dent in what we owed the thugs, and not even enough to cover the cost of the ingredients I'd used.
I stared at the remaining cakes, their golden surfaces still perfect, their sweet scent still lingering in the cooling air. Before the earthquake, they would have sold within an hour. People would have gathered around my table, chatting about the weather while they selected treats for their families, creating the kind of community connections that made a place feel like home.
But this wasn't another time. This was here and now, where everyone was struggling just to keep their heads above water, where a cake was a luxury that most people couldn't afford.
I packed up the unsold items, wrapping the remaining cakes in clean towels and returning the preserves to their shelf. The vegetables went back to the kitchen, where they would become part of tomorrow's soup.
But as I folded the table and carried it back inside, I wasn't discouraged. I’d still made money, and the elderly man's smile when he selected his vegetables had been worth something too.
Tomorrow I’d try something different. Maybe cookies, which might sell for less individually but could be made in larger quantities. Maybe I would set up earlier, catch people on their way to work instead of on their way home after long days spent worrying about money.
Inside, the children were already enjoying their share of the cakes. Loubie Lou had frosting on her nose, and Manny was carefully breaking his into precise chunks before eating each one with deliberate pleasure.
This was what mattered, I reminded myself. Not the money I hadn't made, but the happiness I could still provide. Not the customers who couldn't afford to buy, but the family who could still find reasons to smile.
Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes it had to be.
Chapter 5
