Stillproof

May tossed the third overripe tomato into the compost and wrapped her arms around her belly. The porch light flickered, sounding like a trapped moth in the fog. Down the block, the neighbor’s rooster had been declaring victory, again and again, since well before daylight—a ritual less about hope than endurance, as far as May was concerned. Her yard, hemmed in by lopsided chicken wire and feckless weeds, sloped toward stunted tulips and a single apple tree that kept its distance from thriving. Gardening, for May, was an accident she repeated every morning.

Four months back, her days had revolved around legal documents—signatures, initials, polite “yes ma’ams” and “of course, sir.” Now she moved more slowly, anchoring herself with bread dough and the landlord’s demands that kept showing up on the fridge. Losing the secretary job (“It’s not you, May. It’s the numbers, you see…”) hadn’t turned her into a philosopher, but it had taught her to keep her voice low and her plans smaller than rent.

Dawn was thinning when she noticed the envelope: an off-white rectangle caught in the mailbox’s jaws like a grimace. The city’s Code Enforcement address wavered against the pale paper. May’s thumb hesitated before tearing it open.

Inside was a notice—matter-of-fact, nothing personal, the way an ax might descend without caring what it split. “Operating an unlicensed food vending enterprise in a residential zone; see Section 14-71.” Her own name and address there in block letters. A photograph stapled to the page: her porch, the bread stand, the sign in shy, hopeful letters—Take what you need. Donate what you can.

She stared. Laughter nearly broke loose, jagged and wild—but it never fully escaped. The stand had been for the mothers on their way to daycare, and Mr. Feldon in his always-loud shirt, who sometimes gave a dollar, sometimes just a note or sprig of violets. Nobody ever ran off with the whole basket; nobody ever took more than she could spare.

No questions with easy answers wafted up as she walked inside; her kitchen shelves regarded her with the dusty patience of survivors. She briefly considered making tea, then let the kettle be. Instead she laced up shoes she’d worn thin with trips down to the food co-op, and stepped out with the notice clutched in one hand.

The city building hid itself between pawned watches and overdue library books. Fluorescent bulbs glared at the line of people practicing hope or apology. When May was called, her feet stuck a little to the carpet as she crossed the short, bureaucratic plains toward the counter.

The name plate read “Teresa Dunbar.” Teresa blinked owlishly behind silver-rimmed glasses—it took her a moment to look up, as if the motion cost her something.

May offered the letter.

“You were cited for selling food without a license,” Teresa said, voice tuned for patience and deadlines. “Technically, that’s a Class 2 misdemeanor.”

“I don’t sell it,” May replied. “Sometimes people leave coins, or bread for a neighbor. I’m not running anything. It’s just what we do.”

Teresa’s hand quivered, ever so slightly. Her thumb twisted at a ring, a tic that had little to do with May and everything to do with being here at a too-early hour. “Donations count. The health board is ruthless about code. I wish it weren’t so clear-cut.”

The policy sounded like something she repeated often, polished flat. May kept her questions turned inward—What harm in sharing bread?—and nodded instead. Teresa handed her a hearing date.

That evening, May stacked the bread stand behind old paint cans and let the wind take the curled edge of her sign. Her bed resisted sleep. Above her, the cracks in the ceiling mapped out roots as tangled as her own thoughts. The neighborhood quietly continued, but in its own hush—a hush that reminded her who would go hungry now, and how little the codes cared.

Three days. That’s all it took for weeds to outlast the tulips, petals dropping while May watched from her kitchen window. The kids on the corner didn’t slow to check the porch, not anymore. It made her hands itch, that emptiness—the faint sense that if she’d tried a little harder, or played by rules she didn’t believe in, she might have found a way to keep sweetness in the world.

On the morning of the hearing, she found herself tracing her mother’s old letter—worn paper in her palm, blue loops spelling out recipes and quiet rebellion. There was the line she remembered: “The world is made of a thousand small rebellions. Don’t be ashamed if yours is not loud.”

Courtroom was the wrong word. It was just a blank room with folding tables and a judge with a coffee stain down his tie. Teresa kept her head bent over a folder, her hair streaked with gray today, eyes fixed anywhere but May. There was a little pile of photographs on the table: her porch again, then a girl clutching a misshapen loaf, then Mr. Feldon, his hands lost in sunflowers and brown paper.

The judge cleared his throat.

“Ms. Elkins, do you understand why you’re here?”

May nodded. “I read the notice. But we’re not a business. I—” The table felt oddly sticky. She forced her gaze away from the photos. “It was just sharing. There are folks who can’t always get what they need.”

Teresa sorted her pages, lips pressed so tight they left no room for words. Something in her shoulders hunched, as if shielding herself from a wind of her own making.

The shuffle of feet at the back: Mr. Feldon, upright for once, one palm planted on his cane.

“If you want the truth,” he called out, “no one’s making money out of this. She just made sure we remembered what it was like to have enough. Some of us came with dimes, some just with thanks.”

The judge’s brow knitted in silent calculation. “By the letter of the code, it’s no different from selling. But law is more than ink. It’s the spirit of the thing.” His gaze landed on Teresa, then May, then Mr. Feldon, who stood stubborn as the apple tree in May’s yard.

“I’ll dismiss the citation, Ms. Elkins. From now on, I suggest—strictly no collecting donations. You understand?”

May nodded.

Outside, sunlight dove through the clouds, styling the cracked sidewalk gold. Mr. Feldon set off with a little more spring, his cane punctuating the morning, and May trailed after, thoughts rising and falling like dough, never quite settling.

She nearly didn’t see the figure at her porch. The gate hung open, Teresa standing awkwardly beside it, clutching a brown paper bag.

As May got closer, Teresa’s expression fluttered—something trying to be apologetic but winding up simply honest.

“My grandmother’s starter,” she said, holding it out with both hands. “She used to bake for the block. I thought it might… Oh, hell. I just thought maybe you’d want it.”

May took the sack, its weight warming her palms more than she expected.

“Thank you,” she said—not for the sourdough, not just for the gesture, but for something nameless threading the space between them.

A lopsided smile from Teresa. “Maybe sometime—you know—if we’re both not busy enforcing every little rule, I’d… like to see how you do your bread.”

“I’d like that,” May said, voice sturdy, matching the porch beneath her feet.

Teresa hesitated before turning for the sidewalk. “Maybe the city could use a little less ‘clear-cut,’” she said, almost to herself. “Maybe we all could.”

May watched her go, fingers tightening on the bag. Across the yard the apple tree leaned, battered but impossibly alive.

She carried the starter inside, set it gently on the counter, and began gathering flour. The kitchen would smell like bread before noon—the kind of scent that hadn’t changed much, no matter how the rules did. Out her window the tulips rallied, one stubborn bloom peering skyward, and for the first time in weeks, May’s heart found the patience to meet the day as it came.