When Lacey wants an apple her mother makes her bake a whole pie first. From scratch. The water in the flour, the kneading, the rolling of the dough, the pressing in the pyrex dish, the peeling of the apples, the sprinkled cinnamon. Then the top crust. The top crust breaks Lacey every time. She can’t get that top crust right. She gets holes and tries patching. Little dough squares that look like knee patches. Her mom starts yelling that the pie is a failure. Lacey covered in flour. She cries out and drops to the floor. Every time she drops to the floor and wails there. Just once I’d like her to stand up and wail. But, no. So the pie gets thrown away. Her mother cackles like the old witch that she is. And Lacey goes to bed without her apple. It’s time to run away, I told her the other day. Lacey looked suspicious of me. Well how many pies this week? I asked her. She shrugged; and continues to act like I am the enemy.