I met him behind the slaughterhouse. The air smelled of copper and old yeast.
He didn’t say which Tuesday he meant.
“First loaf,” he’d whisper to the hungry housewives, “eases the morning sickness.” And it did. For a week. Then the child was born with teeth like a lamprey’s. demon deals breadman games
“Eat,” he said. “You’ll need your strength for next Tuesday.”
It came to rest on .
That’s the trick with demon deals, breadman games. The rules are written in yeast. And the dough always rises— wrong.
I rolled the die.
The breadman smiled. His teeth were doughy, uncooked. “Then you know the game.”