By seven the kitchen was already pretending not to listen. The bread box lifted its lid only a whisper-width, the way a librarian opens a door during the last paragraph. Inside, the loaf was finishing the crust, turning the heel as if it were a page that should not be rushed.
We asked at the corner bakery, where the baker was wiping flour from the window. "If you hear a tiny rustle, wait," she said. "That is not hunger. That is the end of a chapter. Toast tastes kinder when it has been allowed to conclude."
The next morning a neighbor came back with a second loaf, just to hear the ending again. By then the whole table knew the crunch, and the napkin nodded first, then spread itself across a lap.