We watch the Molinas climb into their car. When Seu Romário leans back in the passenger’s seat, even from afar I can tell his breathing is heavy.

A couple of customers that were headed to Sugar stop on the sidewalk, looking worried at the scene. “We’re not opening this morning!” Pedro shouts from the car.

Dona Eulalia takes her place at the driver’s seat, but the car is unresponsive. She tries again and again, and the car fails her every time. She squeezes the steering wheel tightly, like she could strangle it for disobeying her when she needs it the most.

I see the fear in Pedro’s eyes when he looks to the right and realizes I’ve been watching with my mother all along.

I think of the times when Grandma couldn’t sleep in her infirmary bed, the discomfort in her chest leaving her out of breath, gasping. No matter how many times I begged the nurses to go check in on her, running from the infirmary to their office over and over, the nurses told me they were already doing everything they could.

It was terrifying.

It was infuriating.

It was—

A horrible, powerless feeling I don’t wish on my worst enemy. How I hoped, and hoped, and prayed someone would make Grandma’s pain go away.

“Mom,” I put a hand on her arm. “Your car. Please, let them borrow it. Please.”

Without a word, Mom runs up to them, holding her car keys out to a surprised Dona Eulalia. Pedro glances at me, and I try to tell him that everything will be okay with just my eyes.

“I need to get my father to his doctor—” Dona Eulalia begins to say, her words tripping over her panic. “He’s not well.”

“Alice,” Seu Romário begins to say, but he chokes. He’s too agitated, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Father, stay calm, we’re taking you to the clinic,” Dona Eulalia says.

Mom grabs Dona Eulalia’s hand and presses the key into it. “Go.”

Dona Eulalia makes a sound like a whimper, her lip curling like she’s trying not to cry.

The Molinas get into my family’s fusquinha—the word Salt written on the doors—and drive off. They’re long gone, and Mom and I are still standing in the middle of the street when we realize a small crowd of neighbors has gathered nearby, whispering to each other and glancing between both bakeries.

I feel like I just swallowed a bunch of sharp pebbles. Why are they staring at us? Because we helped the Molinas? Because, despite the feud, we showed that we care? Rivalry or no rivalry, what cruel person would deny another human being help?

Mom snaps out of it and taps on my shoulder. “Go now. It will be a miracle if you don’t get a demerit for being late.”