The workers lean in close, hands never stopping their work.

“Okay, maybe I’m crazy,” one of them murmurs, glancing toward the hallways, “but didn’t a Girl Scout troop come through here yesterday?”

Another shrugs. “Yeah. I think so.”

There’s a pause. Dough thumps softly against the table.

“…Did anyone see them leave?”

No one answers. The conversation dissolves back into the rhythm of kneading, as if the question was never asked at all.