I stayed up past midnight waiting for people who didn't come back. The sleep I got afterward had opinions about that. It expressed them in the usual way.
So I was up before dawn. Lamp on. Tables empty. Flour on the counter. Two loaves. I measured it out, got the yeast started, and took stock of what I had.
Running an inn long enough does something to your sense of quantities. Not the math part. The other part.
The one that sits underneath the numbers and refuses to explain itself while still being right most of the time, which is both reassuring and inconvenient. I tried ignoring it a few times when I was younger. Decided the correct number was the correct number.
Three times in a row, I ran short. After the third time, I stopped arguing. The feeling didn't know how much more I needed. It just knew it was more.
