He was leaving Walgreens when he saw the premises for lease on Yucaipa Boulevard, and suddenly imagined what it would be like to open a small bakery right there. Maybe it was a silly fantasy—Wyatt had no idea of what rent and overheads would be, or of what other businesses were already established in the same vicinity, or what sort of research he’d have to do before even applying for a business loan—but it was a fantasy, and none of that mattered right now. He just liked the idea of having a place close to home where he could bake cakes and bread and simple things. He liked the idea of coming in early when it was still dark outside, and starting on the dough. He liked the idea of a quiet life that was a little out of sync with the rest of the fast-paced world: working when the rest of the world was sleeping, at his own pace, lost in his own thoughts.