“I know what you are,” I said.
The Third Loaf
The breadman came at dusk, his cart a creaking ribcage of old wood. He didn't sell bread. He traded it. demon deals breadman games
He didn’t say which Tuesday he meant.
It came to rest on .
“You won’t miss them at first. Just little gaps. Then you’ll notice your daughter’s recital was on a Wednesday. Your mother’s funeral, a Thursday. The wedding, a Monday. Tuesdays become wrong. Empty. And one night, you’ll wake up holding a serrated knife, standing over your own bed.”
“Tuesdays?” I asked.
The breadman clapped softly. Flour puffed from his palms. “Game’s begun, player.”