They had eaten cinnamon buns that morning. Steaming coffee, morning banter, and sweet, warm, soft cinnamon buns. That’s how it is, isn’t it? Everything so perfectly normal just until that moment it isn’t. Her mother called, shakingly told her to turn on the television. Her brain seized, sparked and found no traction. Later she would fail to find adequate words to describe the emotions that found her in her body before her mind – that dried her mouth, dropped her to her knees. Later she would never be able to smell cinnamon - to her, now, the cloying odor of death.