7:33 am.

The sinister red digits burned his sight, sleep escaping him as the high-pitched scream of the alarm tore him from the empty depths of slumber. He blinked twice, three times, but the after-image of the numbers clung to the centre of his vision. Dirty second-hand light unsuccessfully dissuaded the darkness from the small bare bedroom. The ill-fitting pane rattled in the narrow window and the room’s few furnishings shuddered in place as a subway train stormed past on the opposite side of the wall. The 466 on the Green Line, delivering the city’s suits to their glass offices downtown. Frank rolled over and buried his head under the pillow, but no further rest was to be had. With a lethargic groan, he rose and sat at the edge of his single bed, preparing to face the day.

Today was going to be a 3. He was never sure exactly what it meant, and it wasn’t until looking back at the day’s end that he could see with any clarity how it correlated with the day’s passing. Often, there was no discernible meaning, but that didn’t mean there was no impact. Every morning, as soon as he woke, Frank reached for the dice on his bed stand and rolled it. An ordinary playing dice – some kind of dark wood with white painted dots on each face. How long had he been performing this little ritual? He couldn’t remember exactly when or why it had started – all he knew was that the die had to be cast. He wasn’t going to tempt fate.

It rested now where it had fallen, the three white pips staring up at him. Not too bad, all things considered. Yesterday, he had rolled a 2. Frank had long ago learned not to attempt anything too challenging or risky on low-number days, and this run of ill-luck had been going on for too long. He was tired of keeping his head down and getting nowhere. Maybe things were finally starting to look up for him. He left the die as it was on the bed stand – he dared not touch it for fear of jinxing it.

There was an energy in Frank, as he moved around the three rooms of his tiny apartment, that had been missing for some time. As he showered and dressed, he considered the possibilities, the opportunities he could pursue on the strength of a 3. Obviously nothing too extreme, this wasn’t a 4 or a 5 he was dealing with, but there was certainly every chance that he could come out of today with a win, some deals struck or profit made. He hoped he hadn’t burned too many bridges, damaged his reputation too severely in his latest run of failed jobs. Frank was known as reliable, a guy who would get things done, but the numbers had been against him. With the way he had been rolling recently, he was lucky that it was only his reputation that had suffered.

He slicked back his hair and donned his black leather jacket. Looking the part went a long way to inspiring confidence in those interested in hiring someone like Frank. He was well-established in his particular line of work, and most potential employers around the city knew of him – the ones that mattered anyway. But it was a competitive marketplace, and there was no harm in doing everything possible to weigh the odds in his favour. He removed his handgun from the shoebox stuffed in the back of his wardrobe, and checking the magazine and safety, placed it carefully in his inside coat pocket. He liked the weight of it, the look of the brushed steel plating, thought it gave him an intimating air when he brandished it. And though it was a tool of his trade, it had only occasionally been fired. Better safe than sorry in this mean city, though.  

Frank closed the door to his apartment, number 334, with care. One of the screws holding the 4 in place had fallen out, and the brass digit was barely hanging on. He took the stairs two at a time, stepping over the body slumped in the hallway – blacked out, not dead. The usual fare for a Monday morning. On the street, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the harsh morning light, as the sounds of the city washed over him. The bass growl of early traffic, the rhythmic clatter of subway trains on track, the countless voices clamouring to be heard – and over it all, the ever-present sound of distant sirens. The group of hooded youths on the corner cast a wary eye over him, but he showed them little interest. As they concluded their deal and scattered, Frank reached a decision: he would start his day with a working breakfast, and so departed for Josie’s Diner.

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