"I smell it, they're baked! Perfectly baked!" exclaimed Timmy. His mother held his little hand tightly to prevent him from getting any closer to the fray. She sniffed the acrid air searching for the scent Timmy had detected. And there it was. Despite the billowing black smoke threatening to choke the homes surrounding the bakery, the smell of sweet freshly baked cake was most certainly there. 

"I told you," shouted Timmy jumping up and down. "I told you the batter for all the cakes would bake!" 

Timmy's mother gave her son's hand a little squeeze and then she kneeled down wrapping her arms around her kindergartener. They would be out here for the long haul. There were too many fire trucks, firefighters, ambulances, and police cars just a few blocks from the home of this six-year-old boy to tear him away. It was wildly thrilling. Dinner could be late, the bath could wait until tomorrow, bedtime was certainly hopeless. This was an event he would never forget.

It was little Timmy who had first noticed the smoke rising from the bakery earlier that morning.

"Is the bakery having a campfire?" he had asked. 

His mother and father had looked out the window and sure enough a thick black plume of smoke rose in the air from the direction of their favorite bakery. It was a special place where they always ordered their birthday cakes, where they had purchased their wedding cake. Things didn't look good. Timmy's father dialled 911.

A terrible noise rose from the blaze followed by the collapse of the roof sending the team of firefighters into a frenzy on the ground. Timmy' s eyes widened and suddenly his exuberance evaporated and he looked forlorn. Then he began to cry.

"But I wanted to get a dinosaur cake for my birthday this year!" he wailed. 

He had just realized what the firefighter's already knew. This would be a total loss. They were merely containing the blaze, preventing it from spreading into the neighborhood and letting it burn to the ground. 

Timmy's mother squeezed him closer and he nuzzled his face against her neck but swiveled his head to keep one eye on the action.

"Don't worry," she cooed. "They will build a new bakery that will make dinosaur cakes."

"They will?" he asked.

"Yes," in fact they build a new bakery in Seattle every month.

"They do?" he asked.

"Yes, there are lots of bakeries. You know that. You like pretzel dogs at the Columbia City Bakery," she said. 

"Yeah, but they don't make dinosaur cakes," he said.

"Are you hungry now for a pretzel dog?" she asked. 

"Yeah," he said.

"Should we go and get one?"

"No." Timmy turned to face the scene again. There would be no leaving for awhile.

"Should I call daddy and ask him to make noodles for you for when the fire is over?"

"Yeah," he said.

The afternoon wore on. Finally most of the firetrucks left leaving just one crew with the smouldering remains. Timmy took his mother's hand and led them back home for dinner. She took one last look at the bakery, wiped a tear from her eye, and walked home.