Saturdays I get up at 4:15 and I want to tell you about the ten minutes between my house and the bakery because it's the best part of my week and nobody's ever awake to see it. Nothing is open. The streetlights are still on but the sky has started, that navy that isn't quite a color yet. There's one truck at the light on Beaver Street and neither of us needs to be at that light, we're both just following a rule for nobody. The bakery smells like it's been going all night, because it has — Ray comes in at 2. He doesn't talk before five. I don't either. We work in the same room in total silence for three hours and it's the most comfortable I ever am with another person. At about 6:20 the first customer comes in and the day starts and it's fine, the day's fine, I like the day. But the day is everybody's. That other part is just mine. I don't have a point. My grandpa used to say the best hour of the day is the one nobody else claims. He got up at 4:30 his whole life. I understand it now and I wish I'd understood it while he was around to hear me say so. Come get a cinnamon roll. They're best at 7. Don't come at 4:15, we're not open, and also I'd have to talk to you.