I find a seat between Isabel and Dona Selma, who’s playing the triangle along with the band. It’s impossible not to notice that, one by one, we’re disappearing. Grandma isn’t here at her old spot, where she’d be drinking too much quentão and getting tipsy. Dona Clara isn’t here to poke Seu Floriano with her cane to get him to ask her to dance. He didn’t bother to come this year either, after losing his booth. So many neighbors are absent, driven out by Deals Deals or grief.

No, it’s not the same without Grandma. It’s also not the same without Mom.

I leave.

I’m almost back home when I spot Pedro rearranging the window display at Sugar. His white apron is tied around his waist, the sleeves of his black flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. His hands and arms are covered in a dusting of wheat flour, like he’s been busy in the kitchen.

He puts down a tray of sonhos, the round, delicate donuts the size of a fist and covered in confectionary sugar. He notices me staring from the sidewalk and crosses his arms over his chest. When we were little, we used to stick our tongues out and make faces at each other through the glass. Now, he signals for me to meet him by the alley and my chest fills with butterflies.

I only have to wait a minute before Pedro slips into the shadows with me. “Try this,” he says, excited, a smear of flour on his cheek.

I bite into the sonho he brought for me. The jelly inside is still warm. So perfectly sweet and tart. It tastes like the pastry’s name. Like a dream. “This is amazing! What is it? Passion fruit?!” I say, my lips covered in sugar.

“Correct! The inspiration came to me in a dream,” he jokes, beaming at me. “I knew I’d give you a sweet tooth.”

His smile is contagious. I haven’t seen him so happy about baking in a while. Something must have changed since we last talked about Sugar.

I’m about to protest my developing a sweet tooth, when we hear Seu Romário calling out for him. Judging by the tone, he wants to slap the back of Pedro’s head.

My blood goes cold, and the playful smile on Pedro’s face vanishes immediately. He puts one finger to his lips, signaling for me to stay quiet, and leaves.

“Chef?” I hear him say.

My heart slams inside my chest as I listen in.

“You changed my sonho recipe?” Seu Romário yells. “Wait for me to die before you go around changing things in my kitchen!”

“Please, Chef, don’t talk like this,” Pedro’s voice remains submissive.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY RECIPE?!”

“I—I changed the filling...”

“YOU DISRESPECTFUL—!”