Initially, only my neck and shoulders were hurting. A headache, like a dark thunderstorm, followed. Finally, there was tickling, like feathers on the roof of my mouth, convincing me that the bread I was baking for the fundraiser would have to wait.
Rubbing my brow, I leaned against the kitchen sink and reached for the postcard. I scanned the planned sequence of events for the following morning. The gourmet breakfast at eight, followed by the bake sale and ten, and raffle at noon.
Would the other culinary arts students still respect me if I brought in bread from a bakery?