The Missing Half of the Broken Loaf
The coarse, flour-dusted crust of the sourdough loaf was still warm against my ribs, tucked tight beneath my ragged burlap tunic as I sprinted through the crowded marketplace. My bare feet slapped hard against the frozen cobblestones, ducking past heavy vegetable crates and the long, woolen coats of wealthy merchants who recoiled at my approach. Behind me, the roar of the morning rush-hour traffic couldn't drown out the furious, booming shouts of the baker, his heavy boots rhythmically pounding the stone in hot pursuit.
A hand like an iron vise clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around so fast my feet lost their grip on the slick street. I bracingly prepared for the blow, curling my arms over the stolen bread, but the person who held me wasn't the baker; it was a woman in a tailored gray trench coat, her sharp blue eyes scanning my dirt-streaked face with intense scrutiny. Before I could twist free, the portly bakery owner caught up, breathing heavily, his wooden rolling pin raised like a club as he spat a torrent of accusations into the damp winter air.
The woman didn't flinch, nor did she let go of my arm, but her posture shifted into something immovable as she stepped completely between me and the angry shopkeeper. Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a leather wallet, offering to pay triple the price of the bread just to clear the narrow thoroughfare.
The baker’s sneer vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look as his eyes locked onto the jagged, distinctive scar running across my right wrist. He leaned in close, the smell of burnt yeast and stale beer rolling off him, and muttered that the girl's debt to his establishment involved far more than a simple loaf of bread.
That was when the woman flipped open the leather wallet in her hand, revealing the polished silver shine of a detective's shield.
The entire street seemed to lose its voice as the baker took a sharp step back, his knuckles turning white around the handle of the rolling pin. I looked up through a sudden, blinding veil of tears, the warmth of the bread against my chest suddenly feeling like an anchor, and whispered the six words that had kept me running for three days: "He took my sister from us."
The detective’s grip on my shoulder softened into a gentle, protective hold, her eyes never leaving the baker, whose ruddy face had turned a sickly, pale shade of gray. The crowd of onlookers backed away, leaving a wide, quiet circle around the storefront as the true weight of the stolen loaf finally came to light.
Instead of running, I stood my ground, watching the detective reach for her handcuffs while the cold wind swept the dust from the cobblestones, finally bringing an end to the long, silent nightmare.
The Little Girl Knocked Over a Biker’s Motorcycle—Then He Saw What Was Hidden Under the Floor
The little girl had been staring at the motorcycle for almost ten minutes before anyone noticed her.
She couldn't have been older than seven.
Barefoot.
Dirty knees.
Tangled brown hair hanging around a face streaked with tears and dust.
She stood at the edge of the old wooden porch outside Miller's Roadhouse, surrounded by half a dozen bikers who were too busy talking to pay attention to a frightened child.
Until she put both hands against the motorcycle.
It was a massive black touring bike.
Far too heavy for her.
The chrome gleamed beneath the late-afternoon light.
A gray-haired biker named Cole Mercer was standing only a few feet away when he saw what she was doing.
"Hey!"
The girl pushed.
Nothing happened.
Cole moved toward her.
"Kid, don't touch that."
She pushed again.
Her bare feet slipped against the rough wooden boards.
The motorcycle rocked slightly.
Several men turned.
One of them laughed.
"She's not moving that thing."
The girl didn't stop.
She planted one foot against a cracked floorboard and shoved with everything she had.
Her entire body trembled.
Her face twisted with desperation.
Cole's smile disappeared.
"Hey. Stop."
She looked at him.
For one second, their eyes met.
The expression on her face made him hesitate.
She wasn't playing.
She wasn't being reckless.
She was terrified.
And she wanted that motorcycle to fall.
"Please," she whispered.
Then she pushed one final time.
The motorcycle tipped.
Cole lunged forward.
Too late.
The heavy bike slammed sideways onto the old porch.
The crash was deafening.
Wood exploded beneath it.
Two rotten floorboards snapped instantly.
Then another broke.
The motorcycle's weight punched through the weakened porch, sending splinters and dust into the air.
Everyone froze.
"What the hell are you doing?!" one of the bikers shouted.
Cole grabbed the girl by the shoulders before she could run toward the broken section.
"Are you crazy?"
She fought against his grip.
"Let me go!"
"You could've gotten killed!"
"Look!"
Cole frowned.
The girl pointed toward the hole.
"Look under there!"
Nobody moved.
The motorcycle lay on its side, partly wedged into the broken porch.
Oil-colored reflections shimmered across the black paint.
One biker cursed under his breath.
Another inspected the damaged chrome.
"You know how much that bike costs?"
The girl began crying harder.
"I don't care!"
That silenced them.
Cole stared at her.
"What did you say?"
She pointed again.
"Please! Just look!"
Her voice cracked.
"There isn't time."
Something in the way she said it changed the atmosphere.
Cole released her.
The anger in his face weakened.
He looked at the shattered boards.
Then at the girl.
Then back at the hole.
"What's under there?"
She shook her head violently.
"You have to see."
Cole slowly crouched.
The porch was old.
He knew that.
Miller's Roadhouse had been standing beside the highway for nearly sixty years, and the wooden veranda looked as though half of it had survived every one of those years without repair.
Still, something bothered him.
The broken space beneath the motorcycle was darker than it should have been.
Too deep.
Cole moved one of the loose planks aside.
Dust drifted upward.
He leaned closer.
At first, he saw only beams.
Then something caught the light.
Red.
Yellow.
Green.
Blue.
Black.
Wires.
Dozens of them.
Cole's expression changed.
The other bikers stopped talking.
"What is it?" one asked.
Cole didn't answer.
He lowered himself onto one knee.
Several insulated electrical wires ran between the old wooden supports beneath the porch.
Some disappeared deeper into the darkness.
Others vanished behind a thick beam.
The installation didn't look professional.
It didn't look recent either.
"What the hell...?"
His anger disappeared completely.
He reached toward one of the wires but stopped before touching it.
The little girl dropped beside him.
"See?"
Cole looked at her.
"What are these connected to?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
"Who put them here?"
"I don't know!"
Her voice rose in panic.
Cole studied her face.
She was telling the truth.
Or at least she believed she was.
Behind him, another biker crouched.
"Could be old wiring."
Cole shook his head.
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because old wiring doesn't look like this."
He leaned farther into the opening.
The girl's breathing suddenly changed.
She grabbed his sleeve.
"There."
Cole looked at her.
"What?"
"Look deeper."
His eyes returned to the darkness.
For a moment he saw nothing.
Then the dust shifted.
Something pale appeared beneath one of the beams.
Cole's body went completely still.
He leaned closer.
The camera of his attention seemed to move past the colored wires.
Past the broken wood.
Into the narrow crawlspace beneath the floor.
At first, he thought he was looking at an old blanket.
Then he saw hair.
Dark hair.
A face.
A child's face.
Cole stopped breathing.
A small boy was lying beneath the floor.
Five.
Maybe six years old.
Thin.
Dirty.
Partly hidden behind a crossbeam.
Loose wires ran around the cramped space near his body.
His shirt was covered in dust.
His hair was tangled across his forehead.
Cole jerked backward.
The other bikers saw his face.
"What?"
He didn't answer.
"What is it?"
The little girl pushed forward and looked into the hole.
The instant she saw the boy, she screamed.
"That's him!"
Everyone moved at once.
Cole put out an arm.
"Stay back."
But the girl tried to crawl toward the opening.
"I told you! I told you he was down there!"
She began sobbing so hard she could barely speak.
Cole grabbed her before she could reach the broken boards.
"Easy."
"You have to get him out!"
"We will."
"Now!"
Cole looked back into the hole.
He couldn't tell if the boy was awake.
Couldn't tell if he was sleeping.
Couldn't tell anything except that a child was lying in a space where no child should ever have been.
"Anybody know this kid?" another biker asked.
Nobody answered.
Cole scanned the porch.
Suddenly everything looked different.
The old road house.
The broken floor.
The strange wires.
A rusted metal cabinet bolted beneath one section of the porch.
He had noticed the cabinet dozens of times before.
Never questioned it.
Why would he?
Old buildings had old junk.
But now the cabinet didn't look harmless.
It looked deliberate.
One of the bikers pointed.
"Those wires."
Cole followed his finger.
Several wires appeared to continue toward the locked metal cabinet.
The little girl noticed where they were looking.
Her crying intensified.
Cole turned to her.
"Do you know what's in that cabinet?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"You ever seen someone open it?"
Another shake.
Cole looked at the boy again.
"What's his name?"
The girl hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
Cole saw it.
"You know him."
She wiped her face with both hands.
"Please get him out."
"What's his name?"
She stared into the hole.
Her lower lip trembled.
"Please."
Cole's voice softened.
"Kid, I need you to help me."
She finally looked at him.
"If we know who he is, maybe we can figure out why he's here."
Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
"I don't know why he's there."
"Then tell me what you do know."
She glanced toward the roadhouse door.
Cole noticed immediately.
"You're afraid someone inside will hear you."
The girl said nothing.
That was answer enough.
One biker stood.
"I'll go inside."
"No."
The girl's reaction was immediate.
Everyone looked at her.
She grabbed Cole's arm.
"Don't go in there."
Cole's expression hardened.
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"Don't."
"Who are you afraid of?"
The girl pressed her lips together.
Cole glanced at the roadhouse.
The front windows reflected the late sun.
From outside, nothing looked unusual.
A few customers were drinking at the bar.
A television played silently above the counter.
The bartender moved between tables.
Normal.
Too normal.
Cole lowered his voice.
"Does someone inside know he's under here?"
The girl's breathing became shallow.
She looked again toward the door.
Then toward the boy.
"I wasn't supposed to find him."
Cole's eyes narrowed.
"How did you?"
She pointed toward one side of the porch.
"There's a gap behind the steps."
Cole followed the direction.
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"You saw him yesterday?"
She nodded.
"And you didn't tell anyone?"
"I tried."
"Who?"
She started to answer.
Then stopped.
Cole felt a knot forming in his stomach.
"Who did you tell?"
The girl began to cry again.
"They said I was lying."
"Who said that?"
Silence.
Cole looked down into the dark space.
For the first time, he noticed something beside the boy.
A small piece of fabric.
Blue.
Maybe part of a blanket.
Maybe something else.
He leaned closer.
The boy's face was still difficult to see.
But there was something around his wrist.
Cole squinted.
"What is that?"
Another biker crouched beside him.
"Bracelet?"
"No."
It looked more like a thin band.
Or a tag.
Cole couldn't reach it without moving the broken boards farther.
The little girl suddenly pointed toward the cabinet.
"He tried to show me that."
Cole turned.
"The cabinet?"
She nodded.
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Cole stared at her.
"You spoke to him?"
The girl hesitated.
Then nodded again.
The bikers exchanged looks.
Cole lowered his voice.
"What did he say?"
The girl whispered:
"He said not to touch the wires."
Nobody moved.
Cole looked at the colored cables.
"Why?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"Did he say anything else?"
The girl's eyes moved toward the dark opening.
"He said if they knew I found him..."
She stopped.
Cole's voice became almost a whisper.
"What?"
She stared toward the roadhouse door.
"He said they'd put me down there too."
Nobody spoke.
Even the highway noise beyond the parking lot seemed far away now.
Cole rose slowly.
His entire posture changed.
No more anger.
No more confusion.
This was something else.
He looked at every biker around him.
"Nobody touches the wires."
The men nodded.
"Nobody goes inside."
Another nod.
"And nobody opens that cabinet until we know exactly what we're looking at."
The little girl grabbed his hand.
"But him?"
Cole looked down at the boy.
"We're getting him out."
She nodded desperately.
Then one of the bikers whispered:
"Cole."
He turned.
The man's eyes were fixed on the roadhouse window.
Someone was standing behind the glass.
Watching them.
The figure stepped away before Cole could see the face.
His jaw tightened.
"Everybody back."
The little girl clung to him.
"What is it?"
Cole didn't answer.
He looked toward the broken floor.
Then the wires.
Then the boy hidden beneath the porch.
Then the locked metal cabinet.
One of the colored cables suddenly moved.
Barely.
Just enough.
Cole saw it.
So did the little girl.
Her face went white.
"That's what happened yesterday."
Cole turned toward her.
"What happened?"
She stared at the cable.
"When someone opens the door inside..."
A metallic sound came from beneath the floor.
Click.
Every biker froze.
Cole's eyes shifted toward the locked cabinet.
Something inside it had just moved.
The girl grabbed his jacket with both hands.
And in a trembling whisper, she said:
"Please don't let them know we found him."
Cole stared into the darkness beneath the broken porch.
The boy remained hidden between dust, beams and colored wires.
Nobody knew who had put him there.
Nobody knew what the wiring controlled.
Nobody knew what was inside the locked cabinet.
And nobody knew who had just been watching them from inside the roadhouse.
But Cole suddenly understood one thing.
The little girl hadn't destroyed his motorcycle.
She had used it.
Because she knew the floor had to break before anyone would believe her.
And whatever was hidden beneath that porch...
someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure it stayed hidden.
