I climbed into my work truck, the steering wheel ice-cold under my bare hands.

My phone buzzed in the console.

It was Megan again: “Thirty minutes, Clara. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

I ignored it, shifting the truck into gear and pulling out into the morning traffic on Superior Avenue.

I had a wiring job at a small commercial bakery on the west side.

My dad had set it up for me, a connection he had made through an old union friend.

“They need a reliable contractor for a major kitchen overhaul, Clara,” my dad had told me the night before on the phone.

“If you do a good job on this minor repair today, the owner wants to talk to you about the main commercial contract for their new warehouse.”

It was exactly the kind of break my business needed to survive the winter.

But as I drove, my mind was entirely on the courier who was currently heading to Megan’s apartment.

I arrived at the bakery at 8:30 AM.

I unloaded my tool tote and headed inside, the warm smell of yeast and sugar wrapping around me.