Chapter 1: The Price of Bread

The deli counter across from the construction site charges $4.50 for a meatloaf sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes.

The place isn’t fancy, and the food’s nothing special, but you used to get free refills on soup and bread—a little comfort after a tough shift. Nothing says lunch break like a sticky Formica table, your boots leaving mud streaks on the floor, and the local news muttering about snow squalls. Boots still caked in red Ohio mud. The scent of fryer grease and cheap coffee mixed with the crisp November air every time the door swung open. The bread’s just squishy white, but when you’re hungry and it’s hot, it goes down easy.

I’ve been eating here with the crew for three years, but today I noticed a new sign taped to the glass.

It was printed on plain white copy paper, held up by old Scotch tape, right where you order: “Extra bread refills now $0.75 each.” The price was underlined three times in blue Sharpie, like Mike was daring someone to argue.

I asked the owner, “Is this rule just for walk-ins?” I tried to sound casual, but my jaw was clenched tight. It’s hard not to take it personally when you’re there almost every day, and the sign feels like a slap.

He shot me a look. “Are you serious right now? This is especially for you construction guys. If I let you guys keep going, I’ll be outta bread and outta business by Friday.” Mike pointed the spoon at me, and for a second, the whole deli went quiet—just the hum of the fridge and the static from the TV.

After he said that, he glanced across the street at the new dance academy. The wind rattled the deli’s old aluminum window frame. A couple of teenage girls in leotards and sweatpants were stretching on the steps, earbuds in, oblivious.

“Same $4.50 lunch—their students barely eat, and their cost isn’t even a quarter of yours. As for your crew, I’d rather not bother.” His tone was flat, but the corners of his mouth twitched, like he was half-smiling about it. There’s a sting that comes from realizing you’re more a burden than a customer in someone’s eyes.

I felt my stomach drop. It wasn’t about the seventy-five cents—it was about being singled out, like we were taking too much just by showing up hungry. For a moment I just stood there, hands shoved in my vest pockets, unsure if I should laugh or curse.

Looks like he still doesn’t know that the dance academy across the street is run by my wife. I almost wanted to tell him right then, but I held back, thinking of her and how she’d roll her eyes if I started drama over bread.