“Some desserts learn what pain feels like. Others decide to pass it on.”

Morning found the little cheesecake before he was ready for it.

A delivery cart rattled somewhere beyond the alley.

Then came voices.

A workshop door opening.

Someone dragging a crate across stone.

A bell chiming farther up the street.

Pastrypolis was beginning another day.

The little cheesecake opened his eyes.

For several seconds, he forgot where he was.

Then he felt the cobblestones beneath him.

The satchel under his head.

The cold stiffness in his arms.

And he remembered everything.

The children’s home.

The cabinetmaker.

The shipping desk.

Seven employers.

The boarded-up eighth address.

The boarding houses.

The words on his old paper.

Slightly imperfect.

He closed his eyes again.

Maybe he could stay there.

Just for a little while.

The thought felt good.

Too good.

He opened his eyes.

"No."

His voice sounded tiny in the empty loading alcove.

He sat up.

His strawberry had fallen sideways during the night.

He reached for it and carefully straightened it.

Then he rubbed one sleeve across the strawberry glaze along the top of his body.

The polish cloth was in his satchel.

He found it, wiped away a smudge from yesterday, then worked carefully around the faint crack beneath his glaze.

It still showed.

Of course it did.

He put the cloth away.

The five silver crumbs remained in their little pouch.

He counted them.

Still five.

That somehow felt like a victory.

He had survived the night without spending one.

His stomach disagreed.

He ignored it.

From the satchel came the folded list of employers.

Every address was crossed out.

He stared at it.

Then turned the paper over.

The back was blank.

There were thousands of businesses in Pastrypolis.

He had tried eight.

Eight wasn’t thousands.

The little cheesecake found the stub of his broken pencil.

He sharpened it carefully against the edge of the crate.

Then, on the back of the ruined list, he wrote:

MARKET

Under that:

WAREHOUSES

Then:

RIVER

He had heard there was always work near the river.

He wasn’t sure what kind.

That didn’t matter.

Yesterday he had looked for positions advertised in advance.

Today he would ask everywhere.

Someone would need something carried.

Swept.

Counted.

Delivered.

Cleaned.

Anything.

He folded the paper.

"All right."

He stood.

His legs hurt.

He stood anyway.

"Yesterday was one day."

The words sounded slightly foolish out loud.

He glanced around to make sure nobody had heard.

No one had.

"Today is another one."

Better.

He lifted the satchel over his shoulder.

Then paused.

He looked back at the little patch of stone where he had slept.

For some reason, he felt as though leaving it mattered.

Last night he had arrived there because he had nowhere else to go.

This morning he was leaving because he had somewhere to try.

That was different.

He stepped into the alley.

"You sleep there?"

The little cheesecake stopped.

The voice had come from somewhere behind him.

He turned.

Nobody.

Only stacked barrels, an old stairway, and a narrow passage between two buildings.

He adjusted the satchel.

Then kept walking.

"Must’ve been cold."

This time he saw him.

A pumpkin-pie slice sat on the stone railing above the loading yard.

The little cheesecake had no idea how long he had been there.

He was lean, with a wedge-shaped body of dark orange filling and a broad baked crust along his back. One edge of that crust was chipped.

Not badly.

But noticeably.

A loose strip of charcoal-colored cloth rested around his shoulders, more like something scavenged for warmth than a proper cloak.

His whipped topping had slumped slightly to one side.

The pumpkin slice looked a little older than the cheesecake.

Or perhaps he only carried himself that way.

He jumped from the railing.

His landing was light.

Too light.

The little cheesecake tightened his grip on the satchel strap.

"What do you want?"

The pumpkin slice looked amused.

"Nothing."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

"Because you’re interesting."

"I’m not."

The answer came before the cheesecake thought about it.

The pumpkin slice smiled.

"That’s a strange thing to say."

The cheesecake started walking.

The pumpkin slice followed.

"Where’re you going?"

"To find work."

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know yet."

"That’s promising."

The cheesecake ignored him.

They reached the end of the alley.

Morning sunlight stretched across the street.

The pumpkin slice stepped around him and walked backward for several paces.

"You don’t have work?"

"Not yet."

"No home either."

The little cheesecake stopped.

The pumpkin slice glanced back toward the loading alcove.

"I saw you sleeping."

The cheesecake felt heat rise beneath his glaze.

"So?"

"So nothing."

The pumpkin slice circled him once.

Slowly.

Looking.

The little cheesecake hated it.

His eyes dropped instinctively toward his crack.

The pumpkin slice noticed.

"There."

"What?"

"That’s why."

The cheesecake’s hand went to the crack.

"Why what?"

"Why nobody took you."

The little cheesecake stared at him.

The pumpkin slice shrugged.

"You’re damaged."

"I’m not damaged."

"Cracked, then."

"It doesn’t hurt anything."

"Apparently somebody thought it did."

The little cheesecake turned away.

"Leave me alone."

Behind him came quick footsteps.

Then the pumpkin slice was beside him again.

"Did they throw you out?"

"No."

"Looked like it."

"I aged out."

"Oh."

For the first time, the pumpkin slice seemed genuinely interested.

"Children’s home?"

The cheesecake said nothing.

"Thought so."

Something about the way he said it made the cheesecake look at him.

There was no surprise in his face.

No confusion.

He understood immediately.

"How do you know?"

The pumpkin slice’s expression changed.

Just for an instant.

Then the smirk returned.

"I know things."

The cheesecake resumed walking.

"So where are your papers?"

"What?"

"Your work papers. Recommendation. All that."

The cheesecake pulled the satchel closer.

The pumpkin slice laughed softly.

"Still carrying them."

"Of course I am."

"How many times did they work yesterday?"

The little cheesecake stopped again.

He wished he hadn’t.

The pumpkin slice saw the answer.

"How many?"

"That’s none of your business."

"Five?"

Silence.

"Ten?"

"Eight."

The pumpkin slice blinked.

Then laughed.

The cheesecake’s face burned.

"One of them wasn’t even there anymore."

That only made it worse.

"Stop it."

The pumpkin slice eventually did.

He wiped beneath one eye.

"Sorry."

He wasn’t.

The cheesecake walked faster.

This time the pumpkin slice let him get several steps ahead.

Then:

"What’d the paper say?"

The little cheesecake froze.

"What paper?"

"The one you’re scared I’ll see."

"I’m not scared."

"You keep holding the bag whenever I look at it."

The cheesecake’s grip loosened immediately.

That was a mistake too.

The pumpkin slice smiled.

"Come on."

"No."

"What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Then show me."

"No."

The pumpkin slice stepped closer.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing."

"Then why won’t you—"

"Because it’s mine!"

The shout bounced off the walls.

A few pedestrians farther down the street glanced toward them.

The little cheesecake lowered his voice.

"It’s mine."

The pumpkin slice stared at him.

Then nodded slowly.

"All right."

For some reason, that was worse.

He began to walk away.

The cheesecake watched him.

Three steps.

Four.

Then the pumpkin slice stopped.

Without turning around, he said:

"Slightly imperfect?"

The cheesecake felt everything inside him go still.

The pumpkin slice looked over his shoulder.

"That’s what it says, isn’t it?"

"How did you—"

"You talk in your sleep."

The cheesecake’s stomach dropped.

He remembered the moonlight.

The paper in his hands.

Maybe he had read the words aloud.

He didn’t know.

The pumpkin slice turned fully toward him.

"Slightly imperfect."

He rolled the words around as though testing their flavor.

"That’s polite."

The cheesecake said nothing.

"What do you think they meant?"

"It was written when I was little."

"But what does it mean?"

"Nothing."

"Then why keep it?"

"It’s part of my papers."

"Why’d seven places turn you down?"

"Different reasons."

"All seven?"

"Yes."

"And nobody would rent you a room."

The little cheesecake’s hands curled.

"They needed proof of work."

"So nobody wants to hire you because you’ve got nothing."

The pumpkin slice stepped closer.

"And nobody will give you anything because nobody hired you."

"That’s not what happened."

"Sounds like exactly what happened."

"I’ll get something today."

"Maybe."

"I will."

The pumpkin slice looked at the crooked strawberry on top of his head.

The uneven crust.

The little arms.

The little legs.

The faint crack.

Then back into his eyes.

"No, you won’t."

The certainty of it hurt.

More than the laughter.

More than yesterday’s apologies.

"You don’t know that."

"I know what they see."

"What?"

"You."

The cheesecake swallowed.

The pumpkin slice’s voice lowered.

"They don’t want you."

"Stop."

"They didn’t want you at the home."

"That’s not true."

"They made you leave."

"I got too old."

"They didn’t find somewhere for you."

"They tried."

"Not very hard."

"You don’t know them!"

The pumpkin slice’s eyes sharpened.

"No. I know you."

"You don’t know me."

"I know exactly what you are."

The cheesecake could hear yesterday again.

I’m sure you can.

I’m sorry.

We need someone who can start useful today.

We can’t take everybody who asks.

Where are you employed?

The pumpkin slice pointed at his satchel.

"They even wrote it down for you."

The little cheesecake shook his head.

"No."

"Didn’t they?"

"Stop."

"Slightly."

"Stop."

"Imperfect."

"STOP!"

The little cheesecake lunged.

He barely knew he had done it.

One moment he was standing there.

The next, his shoulder was driving toward the pumpkin slice’s middle.

The pumpkin slice moved.

Just one quick step.

The cheesecake passed beside him.

A foot hooked behind his ankle.

The world tilted.

He struck the cobblestones hard.

His satchel flew from his shoulder.

Papers scattered across the street.

The pumpkin slice stood over him.

"That was stupid."

The little cheesecake pushed himself up.

The pumpkin slice kicked his arm out from beneath him.

Down again.

"Stop."

The cheesecake rose onto one knee.

"I said stop."

A shove sent him backward.

He hit a wall.

His strawberry fell off.

It bounced once on the cobblestones.

The pumpkin slice looked at it.

Then at him.

Something inside the cheesecake snapped.

He charged again.

This time he swung.

The pumpkin slice leaned away.

The fist missed.

A short strike hit the cheesecake beneath the glaze.

Air left him.

He folded.

Another shove sent him onto his back.

The pumpkin slice was faster.

Not impossibly fast.

Not graceful.

Just practiced in a way the cheesecake wasn’t.

The little cheesecake had never fought anybody.

The pumpkin slice clearly had.

Still, he got up.

The pumpkin slice frowned.

"Stay down."

The cheesecake’s legs shook.

"No."

A hit across the shoulder spun him around.

Down.

He planted both hands against the street.

The pumpkin slice watched him rise again.

"Why?"

The cheesecake breathed hard.

"Why what?"

"Why do you keep doing that?"

The cheesecake didn’t know.

So he charged.

This time he managed to hit him.

Barely.

One fist caught the pumpkin slice along the chipped edge of his crust.

The pumpkin slice staggered half a step.

Both of them froze.

The cheesecake looked almost surprised.

The pumpkin slice touched the chip.

His face changed.

The mockery vanished.

Something raw appeared underneath.

"You shouldn’t have done that."

The next hit came hard.

The cheesecake went down.

Then another.

Not enough to break him.

Enough to hurt.

Enough to make standing difficult.

The pumpkin slice grabbed the front of his wrapping and hauled him partly upright.

"You think getting back up changes anything?"

The cheesecake tried to pull away.

The pumpkin slice shoved him against the wall.

"You think if you try long enough, somebody’s going to notice?"

Another shove.

"Choose you?"

The cheesecake’s eyes stung.

"Give you a place?"

"Shut up."

"They won’t."

"Shut up!"

The pumpkin slice leaned close.

"They didn’t choose me either."

Silence.

The cheesecake stared at him.

For the first time, the pumpkin slice seemed to realize what he had said.

His grip loosened.

The cheesecake looked at the chipped crust.

The worn cloth.

The slumped cream.

And suddenly saw something he had missed.

"You’re like me."

The pumpkin slice’s eyes hardened.

"No."

"You are."

"No."

"You got thrown—"

The pumpkin slice struck him.

Harder than before.

The cheesecake dropped.

The pumpkin slice stood above him, breathing fast.

"I’m nothing like you."

The little cheesecake rolled onto one side.

His arms trembled.

The pumpkin slice looked down at him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the pumpkin slice crouched.

His voice had gone quiet again.

"Listen."

The little cheesecake didn’t look up.

"Yesterday taught you something."

No answer.

"You just don’t want to learn it."

The pumpkin slice picked up one of the scattered papers.

The old intake sheet.

He read the notation.

A faint smile returned.

Then he placed the paper on the cheesecake’s chest.

"They told you what you are."

The cheesecake’s fingers closed weakly around it.

The pumpkin slice stood.

"Stop asking them to change their minds."

He turned away.

The cheesecake heard his footsteps retreat.

He wanted to say something.

Anything.

Nothing came.

At the end of the street, the pumpkin slice stopped.

He did not turn around.

"Next time somebody puts you down…"

A pause.

"…stay there."

Then he disappeared around the corner.

For several minutes, the little cheesecake didn’t move.

The morning continued around him.

That seemed impossible.

A wagon rolled past the far end of the street.

Someone opened an upstairs window.

A pair of workers carried boxes into a shop.

Nobody knew that his entire world had just collapsed for the second time in two days.

His strawberry lay several feet away.

His satchel had opened.

His recommendation rested facedown in the gutter.

He stared at it.

Yesterday had hurt.

This was different.

Yesterday, everyone had given him reasons.

Too small.

No experience.

No address.

No work.

No assessment.

He had hated those reasons.

But reasons could change.

He could gain experience.

Find another job.

Earn money.

Get a room.

Today, someone had given him a different explanation.

You.

The problem was him.

That was harder to fix.

He reached for the intake paper.

His hand shook.

Slightly imperfect.

Maybe the pumpkin slice was right.

Maybe everybody yesterday had only been too kind to say it.

The little cheesecake closed his eyes.

He thought of the matron.

You’ll be all right.

Would he?

He didn’t know anymore.

He tried to sit up.

Pain ran through him.

He collapsed again.

For once, getting up seemed pointless.

Nobody was watching.

Nobody needed him.

Nobody was waiting.

He could just lie there.

The thought came quietly.

So quietly that it frightened him.

He stayed still.

A breeze moved through the street.

One of his papers lifted, scraped along the cobblestones, and caught beneath his strawberry.

The little fruit rolled slightly.

Then stopped.

He stared at it.

Yesterday morning, he had straightened that strawberry before leaving the home.

This morning, he had straightened it again.

Such a stupid little thing.

He reached toward it.

His arm stopped halfway.

He tried again.

His fingers touched the strawberry.

He pulled it closer.

Then pressed both hands against the street.

His arms trembled violently.

He rose a few inches.

Fell.

He breathed.

Tried again.

Higher.

Fell.

A third time.

One knee beneath him.

Then the other.

He sat there, swaying.

He still had no job.

No room.

No family waiting for him.

Five silver crumbs.

A cracked body.

A ruined morning.

And now someone had beaten him badly enough that walking hurt.

He looked toward the corner where the pumpkin slice had disappeared.

"Maybe…"

His voice broke.

He swallowed.

"Maybe you don’t know me."

He picked up his strawberry.

Placed it carefully back on top.

Then, very slowly, the little cheesecake stood.

He made it three steps.

On the fourth, his legs gave way.

He caught himself against the wall.

Somewhere beneath the street, something answered.

Not a voice.

Not exactly.

A pulse.

Deep below the cobblestones.

Or perhaps deep inside him.

The little cheesecake went still.

For the first time since waking, he forgot about the pumpkin slice.

Forgot about the jobs.

Forgot about the paper in his hand.

There it was again.

Thum.

Faint.

Warm.

Impossible.

He pressed one hand against his crust.

The sensation disappeared.

He waited.

Nothing.

The little cheesecake stared at his hand.

Then at the old street ahead.

He gathered the scattered papers.

Put them back into his satchel.

And started walking.

He had no idea where he was going.

Only that he was not going to stay there.