Nobody's Child by Austin Boyd

to make stools, you hear? Next one you weave, get some old jeans down at the thrift store. They bale the ones they can’t use and send them to Cumberland to process into insulation. Mary Ellen Harper will give you some. You tell her I sent you.”
    Laura Ann set the stool on the floor. The aroma of fresh bread filled the room. Yellowed linoleum curled at the edges where it lay under white cabinet overhangs and blue gingham curtains shaded a sunlit window above the sink. With just enough room for a small table and two chairs, an old gas stove, and three feet of counter space, Granny’s cooking area was adequate for one.
    A blue and white crockery bowl sat on the far end of the counter, dusty with flour. Here her friend worked the dough asshe baked her way into the hearts of families from Middlebourne to Frew on the Middle Island Creek. Times past, before Laura Ann took over farm chores, she would walk down the long Jug Road to the crossing, skip across the concrete, and climb the path to Granny Apple’s house, tucked away in a hairpin curve on State Route 18. Together they baked and wrapped dozens of loaves. The years drew them apart, Laura Ann’s responsibilities tugging her away from frequent visits.
    Laura Ann walked to the counter and ran a finger about the rim of the crockery, the same bowl she’d mixed with a decade ago. She learned to cook here, mentored in kitchen ways by a woman who had no children, yet knew dozens who called her “Granny.” She wiped her hand across a worn marble slab that sat on the counter, still slick with flour from the last loaf kneaded on its surface. Instinctively, Laura Ann opened the drawer below it, pulling out an apron. Like old times.
    Granny Apple patted her on the shoulder and then moved to the oven. She handed off a pair of hot pads, then took two more herself and lifted the first of three blackened metal bins filled with browned loaves. Warm air filled the miniscule kitchen, drenched in the aroma of sourdough. She held one of the hot pans toward Laura Ann as though they had been cooking together all along. Six years had passed since she handed off the last loaf, but both women fell into old habits like no time had passed. In the silence born of close association, Laura Ann knocked the bread free and set each loaf on a cooling rack while Granny Apple tore off sheets of brown paper to wrap each one for gifts. A small sticker adorned the ends, holding the tucked wrapper in place for the next hungry recipient.
    â€œTake these home.” Granny Apple handed two loaves to Laura Ann. “But come back soon. We need each other. Now more than ever.”

C HAPTER 6
    D ECEMBER 28
    â€œGot room?” a voice asked from behind Laura Ann. The quiet but familiar timbre stood out against a loud background of chatting lunch patrons at Auggie’s Old Fashioned Pizza.
    Friend.
    She turned, drink in hand, to face Ian. Two slices of pizza pie, dripping with warm grease, flopped over the edge of a flimsy paper plate. A sausage and mushroom delicacy, hot from the oven.
    â€œOne of these is for you.” Ian peeled a second plate from under the pile of warm crust. Balancing two plates like an expert, he shoved a huge wedge of Auggie’s Old Fashioned Thick Crust in front of her and sat down. “You look hungry.”
    Laura Ann blushed. “Does it show?” She lifted her Coke and sipped from the straw, her eyes never leaving Ian — guardian of the outdoors, defender of the helpless, her game warden and best friend. His colors were the palate of the woods: green gabardine slacks and a starched beige shirt. A gold star topped his left pocket, the terminus of a crisp military crease. Ian paid attention to details, including clothing, poachers, regulations, and even her food needs. Since their kindergarten days, he’d always been close by, ever her protector.
    Looking beyond him, she watched other patrons eye her new table partner, the only armed