Flaky crumbs scattered to the floor when the bread was snatched from his hands. Now clasped in the palms of the baker, it didn't look as good anymore. Two big, calloused hands full of bumps and bruises. On the stand however, it looked different. Golden brown in color with a trail of steam rising to the clouds above. He couldn't resist it.

No one would ever even notice it was gone. There were loaves on the stand just like it. Perhaps it was the empty space front and center...maybe it was the lack of money left behind in its place...or maybe it was the fact that he ran after he took it.

Whatever it was, the man towering over him noticed.

One hand gripped the loaf like a baseball, pounding it into his other hand like a bat. The boy flinched with every pat...pat...pat it made. The sound filled his ears, which also stung from being tugged on as he was pulled from the alley back to the market. He admitted the bakery was a lot warmer than the alley, with the oven in the back room turned on for more bread and biscuits, and it smelled a lot nicer as well for the same reasons. If given the choice though, he'd rather be in the alley instead.

"This a joke to ya'?" His voice was low and mean. One that was hoarse from yelling at him meters away, the tone obviously used on boys like him before.

Except he wasn't one of those boys. He was a good boy.

"You think takin' the mickey outta me an' my work is funny?" The bread was pointed at him, shoved in his face like a wagging finger. Taking it from the rack cooled it down, the smell not as enticing as it was before. Still, with it right at the tip of his nose despite the angry, sweaty hands holding it, he longed for it. "Answer me, boy!"

How could he answer to that? Of course it wasn't funny, especially getting caught. But could hunger account for stealing? Everybody got hungry, did that excuse the boy's desperate actions? His mind spun for some form of an excuse that would earn the least amount of trouble here and when he got home.

His cheek burned as he opened his eyes to suddenly see another side of the room. The man still towered over him, the bread in his hand slightly broken. Cupping a hand to his cheek he drew no blood, but a red mark formed for sure. He tried to respond quicker than ever but the pain distracted him from thinking.

"Not a talker, eh?" The man asked retracting his hand. "If yer mouth doesn't open for talkin', how does it open for eatin'?"

"I didn't mean-I didn't mean to," the boy mumbled. The baker laughed at him, his ears hurting worse.

"Didn't mean to what," he asked. "Didn't mean to steal from me? Ya' take off runnin' down the road when ya' hear me callin' with the whole loaf in yer mitts, an' ya' didn't mean it?" The room was getting hotter, the boy unable to tell if it was just the oven in the back or guilt. The effects of both plus the burn on his cheek were making him dizzy. "Ya' don't look skint yet ya' nick my bread?"

Answering was getting him nowhere. But keeping quiet earned him a punishment almost worse than hunger. Inspecting the bread split in half, the baker shook his head and walked to the rubbish bin, dropping it in. He considered sneaking out while his back was turned and running home, but he considered too long, as the man by then had turned around again, wiping his hands on his apron. He inspected the boy too, a shirt on his back, shoes on his feet. His jacket had a tear on one sleeve, one that could easily be mended. Sure his hair was scruffy, though short as it was. A boy out on the streets and not a quid to his name? "Where's yer pop?"

"He's-he's at..." The boy didn't know whether or not he should tell him. Deciding he meant nothing more than curiosity, he complied. "He's at home."

"Home," the man repeated. Home. A place where food is served to you as a boy. Perhaps he was a runaway. "And yer mum?" Still shaking from the mark of the bread, he mumbled,

"I don't know."

Keeping any remorse hidden, the baker cleared his throat. He'd seen boys of all ages making their ways through this street, some stopping to look in the window, others keeping lookout while another took and ran. They usually got away, being two of them. They had a strategy, and faster feet. The boy here was new at this, he didn't get away. "I see. Yer home far?"

"Not very," he answered. He was getting better at it.

"Yer pop know yer here?" Shaking his head, the boy stuck his thumbs in his belt loops like he'd seen the other boys do. The man scratched his long nose. "I see," he said again. "You run away or somethin'?"

"He knows I'm in town," the boy explained. "but not here."

"He send ya' off without a pay?"

"He can't. Says it's work money."

"I see." Grabbing a tray off a nearby counter, the man held it up to the boy. "Let me tell ya' somethin'. When yer pop works," he started. "he gets money. An' when I work, I get money." The tray glistened from the lights on the ceiling. "I make bread an' biscuits an' anythin' else the people out there want, an' they give me money in return." The tray went flying through the air hitting the wall beside them, knocking over a few pitchers. It spun to a stop, the noise ringing through the boy's ears again. "I have a family back home, jus' like yers. I gotta make a livin'! When muppets like yerself take my work away, I get nothin' for it! Do ya' want someone stealin' from yer pop?"

He didn't answer. Answering now would be pointless. The man knew what it was just by the look on his face. It was hidden though as he lowered his head. He sighed, stepping back from him. Most he encountered would mouth off, or pull useless threats. This one would wince when the sun got too bright. Whether he learned his lesson, he'd never know, but at least he learned not to steal from his bakery again. He waved him off.

"Eh, go home. Nothin' but trouble but at least yer scared." The boy stood, unmoving by the door. He was waved off again. "Go on! Tell yer pop you disrespect a man's work, go on! You want food, you'll work for it too!"

The last words from the man's mouth were hardly heard from the boy running as fast as he could, only this time, he was empty handed.

His pace didn't slow until he reached a new street. No one was behind him, they had no reason to be. He took up a walk, habitually glancing behind him every few feet. Without anything to carry, he had nothing to do with his hands. Normally he carried a yo-yo with him but he lost it in a river last winter. He simply placed his thumbs in his belt loops again, kicking a rock in front of him.

He wasn't a thief. He didn't steal. Only beggars stole, the ones he saw in town the other day when his father took him for a drive in the old saloon. Ones who couldn't afford cars like that, or the new hat his father bought him that same day. He lost that too, running from the shouts. He didn't bother to go back and look for it.

A couple kids clogged the middle of the street playing cricket, bats and balls littering the road, only pausing a minute to let the cars pass through. It wasn't until late evening that they had to put the game to a complete stop until tomorrow, as cars passed every few seconds.

His own father had been in one of those cars, coming home from work. Judging by the sun in the sky, he arrived home an hour ago. He was waiting for his son to do the same.

On the right side of the street was a barber shop, the same one his uncle went to every time he came to visit. He'd sit in the old chair and ask for nothing more than a trim. The boy would watch as they shaved him clean, and his uncle tipped them each time. As they walked home one day, the boy couldn't help but ask. "Why'd they shave you?"

"It's what they always do," he answered.

"But you asked for a trim."

"Did I?" he joked. And they would walk down the sidewalk until they reached the house, where his father and his uncle's brother was waiting. "Home again!" he'd call out.

"Uh oh, better get that lock on the fridge," the boy's father would answer. "Hey son, how'd you fare with your uncle?"

"He fared fine," his uncle answered for him. "An observant lad he is. Knows why the sky is blue an' why the sun comes up. A smart lad."

That was years ago. After his aunt died, his uncle stopped visiting.

To the left of him was a cinema, where he'd often go to pictures with his father. Not as often as the other kids on the block, but often enough to keep him friends to chat with. He didn't remember most of them, being as little as he was. The trips started off as once a week. They filtered to once a month, till finally stopping altogether.

They had movies at home, his father said.

But they only came on once in a while. In black and white static with the audio at a constant sub par level. A new television set was always talked about, but never settled on. The boy grew bored with the poor quality after a while, and decided to read a book or finish his homework instead. It made his teachers happy, even if he wasn't.

He took two steps at a time up to his front door. His father's car was pulled up in the driveway, the door unlocked when he turned the handle. The living room was empty as was the study. The only other logical place was the kitchen table, where his father read the paper for the second time every day. The man saw his son walk in.

"There you are, Brian, been waitin' all evenin' for ya'." Brian took a seat next to his father, and crossed his arms on the table. A page in the paper was turned. "You uh-you go downtown today?"

"Sorta."

"Sorta," his father laughed. "What do you mean 'sorta'? You either go, or you don't go, there isn't any 'sorta' about it."

"For a bit," Brian said instead.

"Oh," his father nodded while skimming the agony columns. Looking twice at his son, he noticed a mark on the boy's cheek, about the size of an apple, and the color to match. "Who did this to ya'?" he asked poking it. Brian pushed his hand away.

"No one," he mumbled.

"You get in a fight?"

"No."

"A mark like that doesn't come from nothin', son," his father said. Feeling it with his own hand and wincing, Brian sighed. "If ya' got in a fight I can teach ya' to hit, so you don't get one of those again."

"I went to the bakery today."

Brian's father blinked, unsure if the boy was trying to change the subject or not. Deciding to let his son talk, he did just that. "Did you."

"Yes, sir."

"You buy anythin'?" Brian swallowed a lump in his throat. Maybe he could equivocate his way to the truth.

"No, sir."

"That's alright, plenty a food here at home. Sure, not all of it is a fresh as a loaf of bread from the bakery but...food is food!" The man turned another page in the paper. "Food is food."

"Did you know the food there costs money?" Brian asked. His father looked at him, then at the table, then back to his paper and coughed into his hand.

"Of course it costs money. The...man there has to make a livin'."

"It costs a lot of money," Brian pressed twiddling his fingers. The lump in his throat returned, bigger than before. "Do you know how much it costs?"

"I haven't been there a while," his father replied. "I bet they've gone up." Brian picked at a nick in the wood of the table, wiping his fingernail clean of dust. Looking at his son when he didn't answer, he was responded with a point to his cheek, red and stinging. He sighed and put the paper down. "Son..."

"It was only a small one, I didn't think-"

"So you stole it? What the devil were you thinkin'?" Brian shrugged. "Exactly. You don't sometimes, boy. An' for what, a smack on the head?" His paper was opened again and another page turned. "I'd give ya' one myself but the job's done."

"Are we poor, Dad?" Brian asked. The question came out of nowhere, despite turning around in his mind for days now. The coughs of his father increased, his arm reaching up to cover them. When he was finished, he shook his head.

"Of course not. Not poor enough to nick off the baker, that's for sure." Brian didn't say anything. He didn't want to. Folding the paper for the second time that day, his father removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We have food at home, what are you doin' stealin' it for?"

"I don't know..."

"Obviously you do. Look, I understand you're worried about my job cutbacks." Brian didn't respond other than continue to look at his twiddling fingers. "But it's not that much, I can make it work. There's only two of us livin' here now, an' there's just enough for both of us. Alright?" His father reached to Brian's side of the table and nudged his shoulder. "Alright, son?"

"You've been drinking ever since Mum died," Brian said softly.

"I've kept myself sober," his father answered after a moment.

"Isn't food more important?" The boy got out of his chair and went to the fridge for a soda. Seeing none, he helped himself to a small glass of milk. His father tapped his finger on the tabletop.

"Of course it is," he finally answered slapping his knee. "You're right, ya' know, an' your uncle was right. Smart lad." An idea hatched in his mind. "Hey, since I get paid tomorrow, why don't we go to that big market place you always wanted to see? Eh?"

"That's on the other side of town," Brian remembered.

"We'll take the train then," his father smiled. Brian wasn't sure what to think of all that. Going to the market was every boy's dream in his town, and only the really well off were able to go. Taking a sip of his milk he grabbed a napkin to wipe it off his lip. "Come on, it really ain't that far. We'll buy food, an'-" His eyes narrowed, focusing at Brian's head. "Hey, where's your hat?" The boy lowered his head. "You didn't lose it...oh, son. What am I gonna do with you?"

"I'm sorry, sir," was all he said. The man sighed.

"Well, a new hat then too, alright? Sound like a plan, Stan?" Brian slightly grinned at the nickname and nodded his head. "Alright, go up to your room then an' do some homework or somethin' like. Dinner will be ready in a few an' don't steal anymore, ya' got that? Put some ice on that cheek a yours, it'll keep the pain down."

Brian was halfway up the stairs before his father finished his sentence. It had just been a desperate impulse, it would never happen again. The mark on his cheek was enough not to even cross streets with the baker again.

The glass of milk was set on his dresser after he closed his bedroom door. It wobbled in his hurry to let go, the milk splashing out the rim. Brian sat on the edge of his bed, reaching underneath it. A medium sized box was pulled out, collecting a thin sheen of dust. Blowing it off, he grabbed a magazine out of the box and opened it, flipping through random pages, some of the corners bent, marking his favorites. Page after page was filled with cars, different ones from every year and from countries all around the world. His favorite was on page sixteen, of the fifth issue. It looked just like his father's, but with a nicer exterior and a working brake. It wasn't his yet, but he'd have enough one day.

He'd been saving since he was four. His mother had gotten him a jar to keep a pet frog inside. When Brian's young mind forgot to poke holes in the lid, the jar was soon emptied out and stuffed in a corner of his closet. To compensate for his lost pet, he was given a pound every week to buy something from the corner store. On the day his favorite candy wasn't available, his mother told him he could save the money somewhere, and get it the next week. Upon asking where to save it, his mother suggested the jar in his closet. It almost shattered when he got it down, but soon enough he had a jar on his dresser a whole pound heavier. The next week his candy was available, but seeing the money in the jar made him so happy, and he felt so responsible, he wanted to fill it up even more. Week after week he saved every ounce of money given to him. It had been a while since he counted, and sometimes the jar had to be cracked open to repair his bike tire or pay a neighbor back for a broken window from a cricket ball. Even so, the jar wasn't quite filled to the top. His weekly payments had also ceased among other things. Surely it wasn't enough.

But someday it would be.

He eyed the jar on his dresser, then glanced back down at the catalog in his hands.

He would make sure of it.