Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GVG37NBP3NE56JCNCJYF9Y

The bell above the door jangled at six sharp, right on schedule, while the smell of cinnamon still hung thick from the morning's first batches. "You're out of lemon bars? You never run out of lemon bars." "Blame Harold. Bought a dozen at five thirty this morning. Paid cash, waved off the receipt, and left without a word." "That's not Harold. Harold gets éclairs. Harold keeps a tab and talks your ear off about the mayor. He hasn't paid cash since Nixon." The oven door clanged shut, and a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls emerged, golden and fragrant, steam curling toward the rafters. "Maybe he's changed." "Harold hasn't changed since the Nixon administration. So who came in before dawn, spent Harold's money, and walked out with a dozen lemon bars while the whole town was still asleep?" "You could just ask him when he comes in." "He didn't stop for his chat. Harold always stops for his chat. Forty minutes, minimum." "Then maybe," the door eased shut, the bell jangling one last time, "he didn't want to be asked." By the register sat a single lemon bar with one bite missing. Neither of them had taken a bite.