Charlie pushes through the swinging doors to the back of the bakery and sets down the bundle on one of the skids.
He leans against the wall shoving his hands into his pockets.
He wishes he had his spinner. He likes it back here in the bakery where the floors are white with flour—whiter than the sooty walls and ceiling.
The thick soles of his own high shoes are crusted with white and there is white in the stitching and lace-eyes,
and under his nails and in the cracked chapped skin of his hands.
He relaxes here—squatting against the wall—leaning back in a way that tilts his baseball cap with the D forward over his eyes.
He likes the smell of flour, sweet dough, bread and cakes and rolls baking.
The oven is crackling and makes him sleepy. Sweet... warm... sleep Suddenly, falling, twisting, head hitting against the wall.
Someone has kicked his legs out from under him. That's all I can remember.
I can see it all clearly, but I don't know why it happened.
It's like when I used to go to the movies. The first time I never understood because they went too fast
but after I saw the picture three or four times I used to understand what they were saying. I've got to ask Dr. Strauss about it.
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