I’m about to head back upstairs and throw a pillow over my head, praying I can fall back asleep, when the singing starts. It starts, and it starts loud, cresting over the sound of the mixer running, pans clambering, and music blasting. This is where one might assume I’m going to say it was magical. That the singing was like that of an angel, drawing me to the door of the bakery like some kind of moth drawn by flame. No. The singing sounds like a dying cat.
