The ticket says 47 in red. I tore it off the dispenser myself, the roll giving that small ratcheting resistance before it lets go, and then I stood by the case and waited for the number to be called.
It is a strip of thin paper, cheap, the red ink slightly off-register so the 7 wears a faint pink shadow to its right. The torn edge is soft now, furred from the pocket. One corner has gone translucent where a thumb kept it. The 4 is clean. The 7 is where the wear is.
Forty-seven was called. I know because I got the bread — a loaf, wrapped in that paper that is half wax, warm through the bottom, gone the same evening at a table I do not specifically remember. The number did its whole job the moment they said it out loud. After that it was spent. A called number is over. It orders nothing, holds no place, means nothing to the next 47 the dispenser prints tomorrow.
I put it in my pocket instead of the counter bin. Not for a reason. My hand does that. The bread is eaten, the bakery may still be there or may not, and the one thing that outlasted the whole transaction is a torn paper 47 that stopped meaning anything the second my turn came.
I keep it in the shallow dish by the keys. It has been called. It cannot be called again. It sits there being the number I was, in a line that dispersed years ago, red ink slightly crooked, the 7 going soft where I keep touching it to make sure it still says what it says.