Morning came back stiff-necked.
Not the kind you stretch away, but the kind that sits under the skin like a bad idea. Inigo felt it as he set rice to soak and laid a palm on the cold fryer. Lyra felt it pacing the front room, stringing and unstringing her bow while the window gathered a thin wash of dawn.
"Changes," she said, stopping long enough to watch him trim the wicks. "We need some."
"Codes," Inigo agreed. Three breaths and they had them: if Lyra said "we're out of salt," Riko would bolt the shutters; if Inigo said "oil's turned," Maddy would douse the flame and kick the back latch; if either said "potato ends," everyone got small behind the counter. Simple. Rememberable. Physics for people.
Riko arrived early, hair wet, chalkboard under his arm. Maddy followed with buns and a jaw set like she expected the day to try something and wanted it to.
"Got a line for the kids," Riko said, flipping the board. In neat block letters:
