Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GWW7XFQ75X8GF0KNHPW87F

Cinnamon dust hung in the morning light, and the display case sat half-empty—odd, since nothing had been baked since Tuesday. "Did you lock up last night?" "Of course I locked up. I always lock up." "Then why was the front door standing open at dawn? And why are there flour footprints leading straight back to your kitchen?" "Customers track flour all the time." "Customers don't walk behind the counter. And these are a size eleven—bigger than Barry ever wore." "Don't. Don't talk about him like he's already gone." "Somebody has to. His truck's sitting out by Miller's Pond, keys still in the ignition. And his newspaper's still on the porch. Twenty-two years, that man has fetched his paper at six sharp." "...Twenty-three." "You see? Even you know something's wrong. So I'll pour the coffee, and you'll tell me why there's a half-eaten bear claw sitting on your prep table." "I didn't make that. I came in this morning and there it was. Still warm." "Still warm." "The oven was cold, the lights were off—and somebody baked in my kitchen while I was asleep." "Well then. Best put on a fresh pot. If our midnight baker comes back for seconds, we'll want to be wide awake."