At last, Shizuka peed. She hummed Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” She thanked the ancestors; she thanked the gods. If it hadn’t been spoken for, she’d have given her soul to Jesus right there.

As she finished, Shizuka heard footsteps and a muffled conversation. The beautiful sound faded, then vanished altogether.

It would have been nice to know what that sound was, but she had imposed enough. Shizuka freshened up, returned the key, then got in line. She didn’t feel right just leaving.

And besides, fresh donuts?

She ended up behind a group of boys. One of them ordered the largest donut she had ever seen.

“What is that?”

“I-it’s an Alaska Donut,” the boy nervously replied.

“Alaska Donut?”

“Kindle’s has a Texas Donut, but…” The boy tried not to stare as he explained.

“The Starrgate one is bigger.” Shizuka finished the sentence for him.

“Yeah, that’s what she said,” one of the other youths joked.

“Lucky her,” Shizuka let herself say.

The boys looked away shyly, still too young to respond.

And then, once again Shizuka was in front of Donut Lady.

“May I help you?”

“I would like an Alaska Donut and a small coffee, please.”

Donut Lady’s eyes. They were dark, almost too dark for this world. And yet, somehow, they reminded Shizuka of old Mr. Grossmueller, who had survived Bergen-Belsen and devoted the rest of his life to playing Handel.

Donut Lady placed Shizuka’s coffee and donut on a tray.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Shizuka said, shaking herself to attention. After all, this woman had saved her life.

Donut Lady smiled.

And Shizuka felt herself fall into a field of stars.

Somehow, Shizuka managed to take her tray to a clean table. She needed to clear her head. This was no time for infatuation. It was already February. She had a student to find, a demon to feed, her soul to save.

Then Shizuka bit into the soft, sticky Alaska Donut.

It was second grade, and Mrs. Jennison had brought donuts to class. She said something about an American orbiting the earth and he was called an “astronaut.”

Shizuka took a glazed one and Julie Kiyama took a red, white, and blue sprinkle. The fruit punch was red and cold and sweet.

The donuts were happy and fluffy, and even better than the peach cobbler in the cafeteria …

Wait—why was her coffee cold?

How long had she been staring out the window? Mrs. Jennison? Second grade? Where had that memory come from?

Where was her mind? She must still be jet-lagged.

She glanced at Donut Lady. Donut Lady glanced back. Shizuka felt herself blushing and immediately looked away.

Come on, Satomi, focus.

This wasn’t the time to daydream or make eyes at donut ladies. Somewhere out there was that next student. She wrapped the remaining half of the Alaska Donut, put on her sunglasses, and left without looking back.