THE VENDING MACHINE WANTS TEETH

The vending machine on Platform Six had not worked since the station fire. Mira knew because her father had died trying to open it, and because every night she walked past the blackened glass on her way home from the hospital.

Tonight the machine was lit. Inside sat a single paper-wrapped sweet, the color of a tooth. Its price tag read ONE INCISOR. Underneath, in handwriting Mira remembered from birthday cards: PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME ASK TWICE.

She tried the help button. A voice behind the grille whispered, "I can give you the morning before the fire. You won't like what you learn." The station clock showed 11:59 although she had been working until two. Somewhere behind the wall a train braked and nobody stepped off.

The machine's coin slot opened like a small hungry mouth. Next to it, a maintenance hatch hung on one surviving screw.