Lema's mother opened the bakery door with a peel in one hand. She lowered it when she saw the man on the board.
"Clear your flour bench for him now, Mother. He cannot put his weight on that hip."
"My table has dough on it. Bring him to the flour bench."
Lema led the workers inside. Ty carried the front corner of the board with his right hand. His left shoulder was strapped against his ribs, and the white collar on his jaw chain knocked his wrist whenever the carrier moved. The old man watched it with less interest than he gave the ovens.
"You burn the bottoms in the right one," he told Lema's mother.
"I burned one batch six years ago, Orren. You've been telling the story at every crossing since."
"Then you know whose house your daughter pulled out of the mill."
