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I slip out of bed and walk quietly down the hallway.

The house is dark except for small lights near the floor.

I don't know how anyone finds their way around this place.

Then again, these men probably see in the dark.

I reach the kitchen.

The refrigerator is full.

So are the cabinets.

Arthur wasn't kidding.

Safe people apparently eat very well.

I find flour.

Butter.

Eggs.

Cream cheese.

Fresh berries.

Powdered sugar.

My fingers pause over a package of puff pastry.

“Oh.”

This changes everything.

I pull it out.

Then another.

I find parchment paper and baking sheets.

Within ten minutes, the kitchen begins feeling less like a strange safe house and more like somewhere I can breathe.

Butter.

Sugar.

Vanilla.

Things that make sense.

I start with cream cheese Danish.

Then blueberry turnovers.

Then I find chocolate.

That becomes croissants.