“This isn’t a murder den,” she says, gesturing with one hand toward the boxy warehouse with boarded-up windows and graffiti on every square inch. It absolutely has the markings of a murder den. “Close your eyes.”

“So you can stab me? I don’t think so.”

“Please, Elle. Come on. I told you I want to show you something.”

“How will you show me if my eyes are closed?” I grumble, but I’m already closing them, already doing exactly what she said.

“Now. Picture it,” Jack says. “There are real windows and the outside has been painted white. Maybe with a mural on the east side. The windows let in morning sunlight from the east—don’t open your eyes! The floors are stripped hardwood, the walls are painted lavender, and there are long tables, communal style. The kitchen is exposed behind the counter, and there’s a giant display case with cupcakes and tarts and scones and pies—the best fucking pies you’ve ever tasted!”

I crack open one eye and catch the look of unabashed wonder on Jack’s face as she conjures this glorious image. “It’s a bakery,” I say.

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s…” I stare at the rundown building, then back at her. “It’s your bakery? You want to open a bakery?”

Jack releases my hand so she can shove both fists into the pockets of her coat. “I mean, maybe. Someday. It’s just an idea I’ve been casually playing around with off and on for, like”—she shrugs with perfect indifference—“my entire life.”

My excitement gets the better of me, and I punch her in the arm. “This is amazing! You have to do it!”

Jack reels backward a bit. A quarter-moon smile slips onto her face, but she tries to Etch-a-Sketch it away. “Calm down. You’re forgetting that follow-through isn’t exactly my strong suit. I don’t have the concentration necessary to program the radio presets on my truck, and I’ve been listening to the same Spotify playlist for ten years. I’m not sure how I’d figure out business loans and permits and all the meticulous, boring details associated with running a business.”

“You could get help.”

She scowls, like help is a disgusting word, but a minute ago, her face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Why baking?”

Jack raises her shoulders up to her ears defensively. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why baking? How did you get into it?”