David did not look convinced.
He adjusted the brim of his blue baseball cap, pulling it down slightly over his eyes.
“There are four more of these empty bottles in the bottom of the bin, Mabel,” he said.
“They are buried under the paper towels.”
I looked down at my hands, my thumb working against my palm again.
“Arthur has been working late shifts to get the autumn orders ready,” I said, though a cold spot started to form in my chest.
“He is likely eating his meals at the desk.”
David did not answer, stepping over to the stainless-steel vat instead.
He picked up a clean glass jar from the tray and held it under the flow valve, letting a golden stream fill the bottom half.
“The bubble should not move that fast, David,” I said, pointing to the liquid as it settled against the glass.
“What bubble?” he asked, turning the jar slowly in his hand.
“The one that forms when you tip it,” I said, coming over to stand beside him.
“A proper batch holds its breath before it lets the air through,” I whispered.
