Her hands, white with flour, flipped the bowl onto the cutting board in a single motion. The pile of dough slapped against the surface of the board. She clapped her hands-once-and a cloud of flour suspended itself in the air before dusting the kitchen counter. The bowl, cast off to the side, reflected the sunlight streaming through the window. The static of the radio crackled in the background, like an old man clearing his throat. Then, as if nothing had happened, the music began to blare again from the radio's speakers.