There were six copper on the counter.
William counted them without meaning to. The woman counted them deliberately, touching each coin with a finger before moving it into a second little row.
The baker waited.
“Not the whole loaf,” she said.
Behind her, a child held the hem of her coat. One shoe had been tied together with string.
William had come in out of the rain. That was what he would say if anyone asked. He had not been asked yet.
The woman turned to quiet the child. Her hand left the counter.
He could have taken two. The baker was looking towards the oven. The doorway stood clear. William knew which way he would go.
The child was watching him.
Not suspiciously. Just watching, with the tired attention of someone waiting for food.
William put his hands under his arms.
The baker cut the loaf. A piece of crust broke away, and he pushed it across with the rest. The woman gathered everything into a cloth. One copper slipped off the counter and rolled against William’s boot.
He bent before she could.
For a moment the coin rested in his palm, warm from her hand.
“You dropped this.”
She thanked him. He shrugged as though it had cost nothing.
Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. He waited beneath the eaves until the woman and child had gone, then walked in the other direction.
His stomach hurt.
At the next street he stopped to ask whether anyone needed crates carried.
