Hazzley looked up to the inside window of the main office on the second floor and proffered a wave. She knew Marvin would be up there looking down. He waved back, and then quick-rapped the glass twice with his knuckles in a sort of solidarity gesture. Marvin had a wide head that Hazzley thought of as scrunched, the way heads looked on TV when the setting was slightly off. His jet-black hair, ungreased, stood up like wire. He was grinning down as if to reassure her that he enjoyed rising early to supply food to the neighbourhood. Sometimes he could be found in the aisles, supervising staff or assisting customers, but most days he was up there at his desk, managing, overseeing the space he’d inherited from his father, also Marvin, and that was now under his rule. He worked hard to earn loyalty and made it clear to customers that he was aware of big-box stores edging into the core of Wilna Creek. One new mall with a huge supermarket had opened on the far side of Spinney’s Ravine. The mall satisfied high-tech workers in that area of the city, but it created competition. As for the noticeboard, Marvin viewed that as a responsibility to shoppers, whether they were loyal or not. He also believed that not every communication between humans had to flicker across a tablet or a lighted screen, or had to be tweeted, or needed a thumbs up or thumbs down. Despite the relentless march of technology, Marvin let it be known that as long as he owned the store, he would protect space for pencil and paper, pen and ink, thumbtack and push-pin.

Hazzley turned her attention back to the board. In a corner of one notice, someone had drawn a rainbow, along with a half sun and a few strokes of rain. The image made her think of the word “parsec,” a surprise in the morning crossword. A couple of times a week, she was stumped by some such word. Parsec had something to do with astronomy, distance. She’d looked it up but knew she’d never use it in a sentence.

The aroma of baking bread wafted past, drifting from the rear of the store. In response, she closed her eyes and rocked on her heels, almost losing her balance. Once upon a time, she’d made her own bread. A different time in her life. Every woman of her generation grew up knowing how to make bread. If they didn’t know how, at the very least they’d watched their mothers knead dough and lay damp towels over glutinous mounds that mysteriously grew rounder and higher. Hazzley wondered if she should take home a loaf of rye or a couple of blueberry scones. She heard a hissing noise and watched a sleepy-looking clerk in the vegetable aisle give a shake to a length of rubber hose as he aimed a spray of mist over the fresh produce. The young man hadn’t bothered to comb his hair.