Chapter 2 - The Two-Dollar Bread Roll
Ten minutes later, the store manager, a nervous, middle-aged man named Miller who spent his life terrified of corporate audits, was pacing near the front registers. Marcus was leaning against the customer service desk, spinning his flashlight and smirking as Ethan walked past with his empty cart.
Ethan ignored them. He walked straight to the bakery section, where the day-old pastries were being bagged for the morning markdown bin.
He pulled a fresh, warm brioche roll from the tray—costing exactly one dollar and fifty cents—and added a small, half-pint carton of whole milk from the dairy case. Total: two dollars and ten cents. He took out his own beat-up leather wallet, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and paid for the items out of his own pocket, dropping the change into the tip jar.
Miller glanced over from the register. “Everything alright over there, Ethan?”
“Just grabbing a quick break snack, Mr. Miller,” Ethan said smoothly, tucking the small brown paper bag under his arm.
“Alright, but keep moving. We’ve got a truck arriving at eleven.”
Ethan nodded. Instead of heading back to the dairy cooler, he walked toward the employee exit near the loading dock, punching out three minutes early on his phone app.
The night air hit him like a physical blow. The wind whipped off the lake, driving icy needles of sleet sideways across the asphalt. Shivering in his thin denim jacket, Ethan scanned the shadows beneath the concrete overhang of the loading ramp.
There he was.
The old man was curled into a tight ball against the brick wall, trying to shield himself from the gale behind a stack of empty wooden pallets. His teeth were chattering so violently he looked like he was vibrating.
“Hey,” Ethan called out softly, stepping carefully through the puddles so as not to startle him.
The old man jerked upward, his hands rising defensively. “I’m going! I’m going! Don't call the big guard—”
“Relax, relax,” Ethan said, kneeling down in the slush and holding out the brown paper bag. “I’m not Marcus. Here. It’s still warm.”
The old man blinked through matted gray eyelashes, his watery gaze fixing on the bakery bag. With shaking, mittened fingers, he reached out and took it. When he pulled the brioche roll out, a look of profound, childlike wonder crossed his ravaged face. He tore into the bread with desperate hunger, washing it down with small sips of milk from the carton.
“Thank you, son,” the old man breathed, his voice barely audible over the howl of the wind. “God bless you. I... I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.”
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked, sitting back on his heels, ignoring the cold soaking through his jeans.
“Arthur,” the old man replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Arthur Pendelton.”
“Listen, Arthur,” Ethan said, pulling a slip of paper and a pen from his pocket. “The shelter on 4th Street is full tonight, I know that. But if you walk three blocks down to St. Jude’s parish hall, tell them Ethan sent you. Father Thomas leaves the side vestry door unlocked for guys who get locked out. There’s a cot and a heater in there.”
Arthur took the slip of paper, his rheumy eyes studying Ethan’s face in the amber glow of the security floodlights. “You’re a good kid. That guard... he’s a mean son of a gun. One of these days, a man like that crosses the wrong person, and it all comes crashing down.”
“Maybe,” Ethan sighed, standing up and brushing the slush off his knees. “Most days, guys like Marcus just get away with it because nobody has the power to stop them.”
Arthur gave a strange, dry chuckle that sounded more like a cough. He reached into the deep, dark interior of his ragged coat, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out an old, beat-up flip phone that looked like it had survived a war zone. The screen was cracked, and the plastic casing was held together with duct tape.
“Here,” Arthur said, holding it out.
Ethan frowned, stepping back. “Arthur, I can't take your phone. How are you going to call for help if you need it?”
“I don't call nobody,” Arthur insisted, pressing the heavy, archaic device into Ethan’s hand. “And it’s not for keeps. Just... take a look at the address book. There’s only one number saved in it. Dial it if you ever find yourself standing in front of a giant wall you can't climb alone. Just tell them Arthur sent you.”
Ethan looked down at the battered phone in his palm. It felt absurd, almost comical—a homeless man handing over a broken piece of plastic like it was a magical artifact. But seeing the absolute earnestness in Arthur’s eyes, Ethan didn't have the heart to refuse. He slid the phone into his jacket pocket.
May you like
“Alright, Arthur. I’ve got it,” Ethan smiled gently. “Now get yourself over to St. Jude’s before you freeze out here.”
Ethan turned and walked back into the warm hum of the superstore, never imagining that the two-dollar bread roll and the broken phone in his pocket were about to set off an earthquake that would shake the entire corporate structure of the company.
