He stood on my porch for a long time before he knocked. When I opened the door, he didn’t look me in the eye. He was holding a small paper bag from the bakery in town. “Mrs. Tate,” he said.

His voice was cracked, like a teenager’s. “I wanted to apologize,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just looking at the numbers on the sheet. I forgot.”

“You forgot a lot of things, Marcus,” I said. I didn’t invite him in. The kitchen was cold anyway, and I didn’t feel like making tea for two. He stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other on the wet concrete of my porch.

“The board is keeping the supplement,” he said, handing me the bag. “We had an emergency meeting last night. We’re not cutting it.” I took the bag. It was warm. I could smell the cinnamon rolls inside. “Thank you, Marcus,” I said.

I started to close the door, but he stood there, his hand resting on the wooden frame. “Do you still have the original?” he asked. “The essay?” “I do,” I said. “And it’s staying in the box.” I closed the door. I walked back to the kitchen, took one of the cinnamon rolls out, and put it on a plate.

It was a Tuesday, and the sky was gray, looking like rain. I ate my breakfast alone. The house was quiet, and my knees still hurt from the damp weather. You win, and then it is just another day.