Leo stood on a tall wooden stool by the kitchen counter. His mom pressed her hands into a lump of dough. 'Can I help?' he asked, and reached for a handful of flour.
Flour poofed everywhere — into Leo's hair, onto his nose, even inside his open mouth. He sneezed a tiny white puff and giggled so hard his knees wobbled on the stool.
Leo poured more flour and pushed his sticky fingers into the dough right next to his mom. She guided his hands with hers. Push, fold, clap.
The dough puffed up inside the bowl like it took a huge breath and couldn't let it out. Leo stared at the enormous mound, then at the tiny bowl. His mouth dropped open.
Leo shaped the loaf with his mom's help, but halfway through it started to droop. He quickly patted it back up, and it held — almost like it was listening to him.
The oven dinged and Leo's mom pulled out a golden-brown loaf. Steam curled into the sunny kitchen air. He pressed his palm flat against the crust and his eyes went wide.
Leo sat at the table with a big slice in front of him. His mom handed him the knife, and together they sawed through the crunchy outside and soft inside. The steam fogged Leo's glasses, and he laughed, pulling them off.
Leo took the first bite, crunch crackling loud in the quiet kitchen. Butter melted slow down his chin. He smiled so wide it looked like it might stay there forever.
