He held up a single die. Not bone. Not plastic. Kneaded. Faces shifting like rising sourdough.
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 tipped his cart. Out tumbled not bread, but breaths. Little grey puffs labeled with names. He picked one up, sniffed it like a baguette. “I bake other deals.” He held up a single die