Dana called at four. The reception is tomorrow at ten, in the fellowship hall at St. Brendan's, and could you bring the bread? Mom always said you were the one she taught.

She taught you once. One Saturday, eleven years ago, when you'd lived next door for a month and she decided that was long enough to be strangers. You remember the kitchen was yellow. You remember flour on the radio dial. You do not remember the recipe.

Your own kitchen is not yellow. There is a bag of flour, a jar of yeast you bought an hour ago, salt, a honey bear with a crust on the lid. It's nine o'clock. The house next door has been dark for four nights.