The side street behind the bakery was warm like a pocket. Heat leaked from the back door and carried the smell of yeast and sugar and something close to hope. Flour dust floated in the light like slow snow. A man in a white apron stood by the bins with his hands on his hips. He had the look of someone who had been awake since the world was dark and had not complained once.

You the cab he said. His voice was low and careful. I nodded. He whistled toward the open door and a girl stepped out with a backpack bigger than sense. She wore a dark hoodie and her hair was tied in a knot that defied gravity. Her eyes were still asleep. The man pressed a brown paper bag into her hands and told her to eat on the way and not to let any boy talk her into being late again. She rolled her eyes but not with hatred. It was a practiced dance.

Where to I asked. She said Fairfax High and slid into the back like she had ridden in a thousand cabs. The baker leaned down to my window and told me her aunt would pay at the school office like always and that she had a test today and that she should not be allowed to stop for anything not even a soda. He looked at her and softened. Except water he said. Water is allowed. He tapped the roof twice and stepped back.

We pulled into the street. The air behind us was sweet and the air ahead was the usual city mix of heat and exhaust and stories. She tore the bag open and the smell of fresh bread covered the cab like a blanket. She offered me a piece without talking. I took a small corner. It was soft and still breathing steam.

You work there I asked. She chewed and said not really and then after a moment said sort of. My uncle owns it. I wash trays and sometimes I braid the bread. He says my hands are too fast and not careful. He says careful hands taste better. She looked out the window. He is probably right.

Traffic was honest for once and let us glide. A bus pulled beside us and the kids inside pushed their faces to the glass and made the kind of jokes kids make when they are trying to swallow their own fear. She laughed and then grew quiet. You ever skip school she asked.

Once or twice I said. Then more than that.

Did you get in trouble

I said yes but not from the wrong people. She nodded like she had met the wrong people too. The bread bag crinkled. She pulled out a second roll and studied it like it might offer directions.

You always drive nights she asked.

Mostly. Sometimes the morning drags me along. It has stronger arms than I do.

She smiled. She had a tiny chip in one front tooth. It made her look brave. I asked about the test. Biology she said. Cells and membranes and little parts that keep other parts from falling apart. She grinned at her own words. My uncle says if I understand dough I understand cells. They rise or they collapse depending on how kind you are.

We crossed a stretch where the sun came clean between buildings and made the windshield glow. The orange in my cup holder caught it and turned bright like a coin pulled from a pocket of light. She noticed. Nice orange she said.

A man gave it to me I said. At the station. He said it was a small sun for later.

She nodded like this made sense. Can I hold it for one minute she asked. I passed it back. She cupped it with both hands and closed her eyes. For a second the car felt full of silence but not the heavy kind. The kind where a song is about to begin. She gave it back. Thanks she said. It is warm.

We rolled by a mural of saints and street poets and one woman with wings and a grocery cart. The girl said the woman is real she lives near our shop and sometimes she sings at five in the morning and the pigeons nod like they went to her concert. She opened the window and let the air touch her face. The hoodie fell off one shoulder and I could see ink words on the side of her neck written small like someone hid a sentence there. I did not read it. Some things deserve to keep their mystery.

At a stoplight a boy with a skateboard slapped the trunk and laughed and shot away. She watched him go and shook her head and then she asked me if I ever knew someone who did not know their own name. I said I knew a few and sometimes I was one of them. She said my mom says I change my name every year and that one day I will have too many to carry. I asked what her name was today. She thought about it and said Ana and then added it might be wrong by next month.

We turned down a street lined with jacaranda. Purple confetti everywhere and no party in sight. She said this is where the air gets soft and I said yes it does. She asked if it is always like this in New York. I said no and yes and then told her about winter and about trains that scream underneath and about a man who sold coffee from a cart and swore he could see the ocean in a pothole after rain. She laughed and asked if I missed it. I said I miss ideas and not always the place.

She finished the roll and folded the bag like a secret. She said my uncle talks to dough like it is a scared kid. He says trust your own rise. People forget to say that to people. I said your uncle is wise. She shrugged. He also snores like a broken engine. Wisdom and noise live together I guess.

We were close to the school. Traffic thickened with yellow buses and hollow yawns. She grew quiet and held her backpack like a shield. She said my aunt wants me to be a nurse. I do not know if I could hold that much pain without spilling it. I said nurses are made of steel covered in kindness and that maybe bread and cells are not so far apart. She looked at me like she was saving the sentence for later.

We rolled to the curb near the main gate. Kids poured out of cars like coins into a jar. She did not move yet. She looked at the orange again. She said the small sun is for later. I asked if she needed it more than I did. She shook her head and then paused and then nodded and then shook her head again like there were two people inside her and both had a voice. Take it I said. The man who gave it to me would understand. She held it and looked less like a student and more like a traveler who had found a compass.

She asked what I wanted to be when I was her age. I said loud without thinking a musician. She asked what happened. I said I played and I loved it and life kept asking me to pay in cash. She smiled with that chipped tooth like a small flag of honesty.

She opened the door but before she stepped out she set one of the rolls back on the seat. Trade she said. Sun for bread. It is fair. Tell your next passenger to eat before they say something they cannot unsay. She winked and closed the door and blended into the stream of backpacks and sneakers and half finished sentences.

The office lady walked over with a receipt book and a tired pen. She called me sir which always feels like a mild lie. She paid the fare and added three dollars in coins that chimed like rain. For the bread rides she said. I asked how many I had done. She said enough to know you will keep doing them. She scribbled a note for the baker and stuck it under the wiper for me to deliver if I passed by.

I pulled from the curb and watched the gates swallow the morning. The orange was gone and the cab felt different in a way I could not name. Lighter maybe. The roll on the seat was still warm. I took a bite and it tasted like care and like hands that did not hurry.

The dispatcher mumbled a new address. I ignored it for a minute and turned toward the bakery. The street was busier now. Trucks snorted. Radios declared the day official. When I reached the alley the baker was out front hosing flour from the concrete like washing chalk off a board. I handed him the note and he read it and smiled like the paper had told a joke meant only for him. He asked if Ana was on time. I said she was early and he laughed. Good he said. Today is membranes. He lifted his chin toward the sky like he could see cells in the clouds.

I held up the empty spot where the orange had been. He nodded slow. Some things belong to the next person he said. He wrapped another roll with a quick hand and tossed it to me. For the road. For whoever sings under your window tonight.

I drove away with the window cracked. The smell of bread lifted what the night had put on my shoulders. The roll sat beside me like a small promise. The meter glowed steady with its simple math. Names of streets and names of people flowed through the speaker. I let the city decide who needed me.

At a long light I felt the wheel under my hands and it felt like a low drum. A beat you could tell a story to. I thought of the drunk man with the empty ring. I thought of the girl who made the train and maybe did not look back. I thought of the old man who kept time in a cracked watch and believed rain remembers. I thought of Ana and the way she held that orange like dawn.

The light changed. I went forward. The cab hummed. The city opened its mouth and exhaled and I drove into that breath like a person climbing into a warm coat. The next address waited. The next name had not been spoken yet. I kept both hands on the wheel and let the day pull me by the sleeve.