The bell tolled at dusk.

I was nine.

The smell of rot hit me first.

Not meat.

Not fish.

Something sweet.

Cloying.

Like overripe pears left in the sun.

It clung to the back of my throat.

Thick.

Waxy.

I held my breath.

The air in Oakhaven was heavy.

It pressed against my eardrums.

The cobblestones were wet.

Not from rain.

From the morning’s scrubbing.

We scrubbed the town square every day.

Mr. Gable said it kept the sins off the stones.

He wiped his hands on his apron.

The cloth was black with dirt.

He looked at me.

His eyes were small.

Beet red.

"You see it, Tom?"

I nodded.

My chin trembled.

I couldn't stop it.

"I do."

"Good."

He turned away.

His shoulders hunched.

He moved toward the bakery door.

The heavy oak.

It groaned in the wind.

I followed.

My boots squeaked.

Slip.

Slip.

The door opened.

Heat blasted my face.

Steam.

Yeast.

Butter.

The smell was wrong.

It was too sweet.

It covered the rot.

It hid the truth.

I stepped inside.

The ovens glowed orange.

Like eyes.

Mr. Gable stood by the first rack.

He pulled out a tray.

Loaves.

Round.

Golden.

They looked perfect.

Too perfect.

"Fresh," he said.

His voice was rough.

Like gravel in a tin cup.

"Take one."

I didn't move.

My feet were nailed to the floor.

"Tom."

He pointed.

A finger stained with flour.

White.

Pale as bone.

"Take. One."

I reached out.

My hand shook.

I touched the bread.

It was hot.

Burning.

I pulled back.

"Too hot," I whispered.

"It's fine," he said.

He laughed.

A dry, cracking sound.

Like a branch snapping.

"Wait. It cools."

I waited.

I stood there.

The seconds stretched.

They pulled.

They snapped.

The door creaked.

Someone entered.

A shadow.

Tall.

Thin.

It was Silas.

The baker’s apprentice.

He was my friend.

My only friend.

He wore a white cap.

It was dirty.

Stained with grease.

He looked at me.

His face was pale.

His lips were blue.

"Tom," he said.

His voice was soft.

A whisper.

"Go away."

I didn't move.

"Why?" I asked.

My voice was high.

Thin.

A wire about to break.

"Because they know," Silas said.

"Who knows?"

"Everyone."

He looked at Mr. Gable.

Mr. Gable was watching.

His face was a mask.

Wooden.

Still.

"Silas," Gable said.

He didn't turn around.

"Heard that."

Silas flinched.

He looked down.

At his shoes.

Muddy.

Torn.

"Sorry, Master Gable."

"No need to apologize," Gable said.

His voice was calm.

Dead calm.

"Go to the back."

"To what?"

"The cellar."

Silas stopped.

His head snapped up.

His eyes were wide.

Afraid.

"No."

The word was sharp.

A cut.

Gable turned.

Slowly.

Like a windmill.

"Did I say no?"

"No," Silas said.

His voice cracked.

"I said no."

Gable stepped forward.

His shadow fell on Silas.

It swallowed him.

"Tom," Gable said.

He looked at me.

His eyes were hard.

Ice.

"Watch."

I wanted to run.

My legs were lead.

I couldn't move.

I had to watch.

Gable reached for Silas.

His hand closed around Silas’s shoulder.

Silas didn't fight.

He slumped.

He looked tired.

So tired.

"Take the boy," Gable said.

To whom?

To the air?

No.

To the shadows in the corner.

Two men stepped out.

Big.

Quiet.

They wore grey coats.

They smelled of damp wool.

They grabbed Silas.

One on each arm.

Silas didn't scream.

He looked at me.

His eyes were clear.

Blue.

Like the sky before a storm.

He mouthed two words.

*It’s bread.*

I didn't understand.

They dragged him out.

The door slammed.

The sound echoed.

Boom.

The heat felt colder now.

The ovens still glowed.

I looked at the loaves.

They sat on the rack.

Waiting.

Gable picked one up.

He broke it in half.

The inside was white.

Soft.

He took a bite.

He chewed.

Slowly.

He smiled.

It was a terrible smile.

Wide.

Too wide.

"Sweet," he said.

He pointed at me.

"You like sweet things, Tom?"

I nodded.

I couldn't speak.

"Good," Gable said.

"Everyone likes sweet things."

He swallowed.

His throat moved.

Up.

Down.

"Come with me."

I followed.

I had to.

My feet moved on their own.

We walked to the back of the shop.

Past the flour sacks.

Past the barrels of oil.

To a small door.

Iron.

Cold to the touch.

Gable opened it.

Darkness.

A staircase went down.

The smell was worse here.

Thicker.

Sickly.

We went down.

Step by step.

My heart pounded.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The stairs ended.

A room.

Small.

Stone walls.

No windows.

Only a single lamp.

Olive oil.

Dim light.

In the center of the room.

A table.

Wood.

Old.

On the table.

A bowl.

White porcelain.

It was full.

I leaned in.

My eyes widened.

It wasn't bread.

It wasn't dough.

It was meat.

Chopped fine.

Mixed with flour.

Mixed with sugar.

Mixed with something dark.

Blood?

No.

Something else.

I looked at Gable.

He was calm.

He washed his hands in a basin.

Water sloshed.

Clear.

Then dark.

"Silas made a mistake," Gable said.

His back was to me.

"He used the wrong cut."

"I don't understand," I said.

My voice was small.

A mouse squeak.

"You will," Gable said.

He dried his hands.

"On the cloth."

"Silas is my friend," I said.

The words came out fast.

Hot.

Sharp.

Gable turned.

His face was stern.

"Friends do not lie."

"Silas didn't lie!"

I shouted.

My voice echoed.

It bounced off the walls.

It hurt my ears.

"Who told you he lied?" Gable asked.

"No one."

"But you believe it."

"Yes."

"Because you saw him."

I froze.

I saw him.

In the street.

Carrying a bag.

Heavy.

Swollen.

I saw him drop it.

I saw the contents spill.

Not flour.

Not grain.

Something wet.

Something dark.

I ran away.

I was scared.

I told Gable.

I thought I was helping.

I thought I was being brave.

I was wrong.

"You saw," Gable said.

His voice was soft.

Quiet.

"I did."

"And what did you see?"

"I saw... meat."

Gable nodded.

Slowly.

"Yes. Meat."

"Is that... is that allowed?"

"Allowed?"

He laughed again.

That dry, cracking sound.

"Tom, look at the bowl."

I looked.

The mixture glistened.

It looked like wet clay.

"It's bread," Gable said.

"It's always been bread."

"It's meat."

"It's *our* meat," Gable said.

He stepped closer.

He smelled of yeast.

And sweat.

"And bone. And sin. And salt."

He touched my cheek.

His hand was cold.

"Oakhaven is hungry, Tom. Not for food. For life. We give it to the loaves. The loaves give it to us. It is a circle. A perfect circle."

I pulled back.

My skin crawled.

"Silas stopped," I said.

My voice was trembling.

"He tried to stop."

"Did he?"

Gable’s eyes narrowed.

"He stole the recipe. He tried to leave. He broke the circle."

"He was sick," I said.

"Was he?"

"Yes. He looked sick."

"He was guilty," Gable said.

"Guilty of what?"

"Of weakness."

The word hung in the air.

Heavy.

Stale.

Gable walked to the table.

He picked up a spoon.

Wood.

Worn smooth by use.

He dipped it into the bowl.

He pulled it out.

The mixture clung to it.

Thick.

Viscous.

He held it up to the light.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

He looked at me.

"Will you eat?"

I shook my head.

"No."

He didn't get angry.

He looked sad.

Disappointed.

Like a father with a lazy child.

"Then you are not ready," he said.

He put the spoon down.

It clinked against the porcelain.

A sharp sound.

Loud.

"Go up, Tom."

I turned.

I ran.

I ran up the stairs.

I didn't look back.

I burst out of the shop.

The street was empty.

The cobblestones were wet.

The smell of rot was gone.

Only the smell of rain remained.

Clean.

Sharp.

I walked home.

My legs were weak.

I sat on my porch.

I stared at the ground.

The next day, the town square was clean.

The ovens were full.

The loaves were golden.

Everyone ate.

They smiled.

They looked happy.

They looked full.

I watched them.

I felt empty.

I felt hollow.

Silas was gone.

His room was empty.

His bed was made.

His clothes were folded.

Gable stood in the street.

He watched the people eat.

He watched them chew.

He watched them swallow.

He looked at me.

From across the square.

He raised his hand.

He held up a piece of bread.

He took a bite.

He pointed at me.

He smiled.

That terrible smile.

I looked away.

I went inside.

I closed the door.

I locked it.

I sat in the dark.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I thought about the bowl.

The meat.

The flour.

The sugar.

I thought about Silas.

His blue eyes.

*It’s bread.*

I didn't understand then.

I don't understand now.

But I am hungry.

I am always hungry.

And I am afraid.

The bell tolled at dusk.

It sounded like a bone breaking.

I stood up.

I walked to the door.

I unlocked it.

I went out.

The air was cold.

The smell was sweet.

I walked to the bakery.

The door was open.

The ovens glowed.

Gable was not there.

Only the loaves.

They sat on the rack.

Golden.

Round.

Waiting.

I picked one up.

It was warm.

It felt like skin.

I broke it.

The inside was white.

Soft.

I looked at the crumb.

It was fine.

Powdery.

I put it in my mouth.

I chewed.

It tasted of nothing.

It tasted of everything.

It tasted of fear.

It tasted of love.

It tasted of Silas.

I swallowed.

It went down.

Hot.

Smooth.

I felt it in my stomach.

It burned.

A small fire.

It spread.

To my arms.

To my legs.

To my head.

I stood there.

In the bakery.

In the dark.

I waited.

The fire grew.

It did not hurt.

It felt like being held.

It felt like being known.

I smiled.

I didn't know why.

But I smiled.

The bell tolled again.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

I closed my eyes.

I was no longer Tom.

I was the dough.

I was the yeast.

I was the heat.

I was the circle.

The fire burned.

It burned bright.

It burned white.

I was saved.

I was free.

The loaves waited.

They were patient.

They were kind.

They would feed us all.

Until the end.

Until the very end.

I took another bite.

It was sweet.

It was home.