Yesterday, someone knocked on my door at five thirty in the morning. Normally, I wouldn’t answer, but because of the time change, I was actually wide awake. I was busy transferring the dish soap from the squeeze bottle without very much in it, into a bigger bottle with more in it. This was important to me at the time, though admittedly it sounds less urgent now.
When I opened the door, Levi was standing on the front step. Alone, he was, and hatless. His perfect hair was being made somewhat more error-prone due to the stiff wind blowing off Lake Michigan. He was holding Griffin, who struggled to jump out of his arms when he saw me. Without thinking, I reached out for the dog and took him from Levi.
“So,” Levi said.
“So,” said I. “Could I interest you in a cinnamon roll that comes out of one of those pressurized cardboard tubes? I found six packages in the freezer.”
“You could,” Levi said. “You most definitely could.”
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.