Mr. Crumb
"What about the day between Wednesday and Friday?" you ask.
The bakery goes quiet the way a dropped glass goes quiet: just before.
Mr. Crumb laughs. It is a very good laugh, warm and floury, and it does not reach his eyes, which have gone to the window, where the fog has moved โ noticeably, deliberately โ closer to the glass.
"Between Wednesday and Friday," he says gently, "is night-time, my dear. Same as between any other days. Now. Take another bun. Take two. And maybe don't say that word so loud, eh? Not because anything would happen." He wraps the buns with great care. "Just โ the fog gets in everywhere, this time of year."
The fog is now pressed against the window like a face.