Chapter 6 - The Limp-Home Mode
Tuesday morning came with a fierce, black frost that turned the mud of the valley into iron. The thermometer outside the bakery window read nine degrees at 5:00 AM.
Rowan loaded the Ford Focus with forty loaves for Mancini’s and another sixty for the gate shift at the steel mill. The interior of the car was so cold that his breath froze on the inside of the windshield, requiring him to scrape it with an old credit card while the engine sputtered and groaned.
He drove up the hill past the water tower at 6:00 AM.
As he reached the crest of the grade, he saw it—the large, blue-and-white Halden Foods distribution truck was pulled onto the shoulder, its hazard lights flashing weakly in the gray dawn. A thick cloud of gray smoke was lifting from the exhaust pipe under the chassis, and the driver was standing by the front wheel, swearing into a cell phone.
Rowan didn't slow down. He passed the truck with his headlights on, his radio playing an old country station low in the background. He looked at the driver’s face—it was the same kid who had tried to deliver the damp flour three weeks ago.
When Rowan arrived at Mancini’s Market at 6:18 AM, Frank was outside, clearing the sidewalk with a wide aluminum shovel.
Rowan got out of the car, carrying two massive wooden crates filled with hot bread. The steam rose from the wood, smelling of yeast and toasted grain.
"You're early," Frank said, his nose red from the cold.
"The road was clear," Rowan said, walking past him into the warm store. He set the crates down by the empty display rack and began stacking the dark, round loaves himself, his fingers moving with an efficient, practiced grace.
By 6:30 AM, the Bellweather loaves were arranged in a solid, neat wall of real food under the bright store lights. The price tag read $4.50—a dollar more than the Halden loaves, but twice the weight.
At 11:45 AM, the Halden truck finally rumbled into the alley behind Mancini’s, its engine coughing through its clogged filter. The driver entered the front door, carrying a stack of plastic bread trays, his face tight with the stress of a five-hour delay.
He stopped in front of the rack.
The Halden section was untouched, but twenty-four of the thirty Bellweather loaves were already gone, leaving only a few crumbs on the wooden shelves and a basket of money in Frank’s register.
"What’s this?" the driver asked, pointing at the Bellweather sign. "We got an exclusivity agreement, Frank."
Frank Mancini didn't look up from his ledger. "You had an agreement to be here at eight, kid. The old ladies don't eat agreements for breakfast. Take your white bread back to the warehouse. I’m out of space."
The driver stood there for ten seconds, his face turning red under his Halden cap. He looked at Rowan’s name written in small letters at the bottom of the Bellweather sign, then slammed his empty trays together and stormed out the door.
May you like
Rowan watched from the back of the store, where he was enjoying a cup of black coffee with Frank. He didn't say anything. He just took his pencil out from behind his ear and checked off the first box on his competitive analysis sheet.
The margin war had begun.
