Milo was running late. Twenty-nine minutes and counting. His tires squealed as he rounded the corner. The speedometer registered nearly fifty. As Milo struggled with the wheel, a child darted across the street. He slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt mere inches from the terrified little girl.
The family at the house was very understanding. They paid for their pizza even though it was a minute past the Delivery Promise. Milo had been late, but he'd gotten paid. That counted, right?
Something shifted in the darkness behind him. “You have broken the agreement,” hissed the sibilant voice.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
21 hours ago