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Mark arrived at Bryce’s Bakery every morning except Mondays when the shop was closed. He drove his Honda hybrid three miles past the South Waterfront, crossing the Willamette over the Ross Island Bridge, to the bakery in the East Portland Grand Avenue Historic District. Unlike Andrew, he liked mornings. When he was on the early shift he liked to be out and about, seeing Portland with the slimmest stirrings of life. He liked the settled quiet. When he was on the later shifts, he liked the bustle everywhere around him, the Willamette a slippery glimmer in the distance. He knew most people up and down Grand Avenue, the proprietors of the industrial-type businesses, the restaurant owners, the coffee shop baristas, the deliverymen, the regular customers. One time Andrew mentioned how it seem
