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He had spied a couple of boys, on their way to school no doubt, looking at the window display earlier, and he had a feeling they might be back, but not until school was over. Anyone who ventured into the store through the day was likely to be an adult. There were many so-called grown-ups who enjoyed the hobby, plenty of dads who, fearing that their interest in toy trains might be mocked, used their children as cover.

“It’s for my son,” a man might say, handing over his money, but you could see the twinkle in his eye.

Ah, the joy of it. The setting of the hook.

But Nabler wasn’t exactly reeling them into the boat like some fisherman out for bass. The Trojan Horse was a better analogy. The customer had to invite him in, take him into their hearth and home. That was when therealmagic happened.

Five minutes had passed since turning on theopensign. Mustn’t get impatient. There hadn’t been a lot of time for the townsfolk to notice he was here.It will take as long as it takes, he thought. Just as well that time was something of an abstract concept for Nabler.While committed to punctuality when it came to hours and minutes and seconds, Nabler was vague on days and weeks and months. Was this his first day of business or his second, or third? He wasn’t quite sure. Was this his fourth shop? His fifth? His fifteenth? Hard to say. He had set up shop in so many different places.

All he knew was he was here now, there was much he had already done, and there was much more to do.

It was a quiet morning until shortly after eleven, when a man in his late thirties wandered in. Slim, slightly balding. He was wearing a short-sleeved white business shirt even though fall was in the air. Dark brown pants with a perfect crease and a pair of Wallabees on his feet. In the pocket of his shirt was a plastic protector that held several pens. He stepped into the store hesitantly, briefly glancing over his shoulder, as though worried that someone passing by on the sidewalk might see him enter.

But once he was a few steps inside and confident he could not be seen from the street, he began to browse. Looking through the plastic windows on each of the boxes, picking up the occasional one for closer examination. When he got to the larger box sets, comprised of an engine, three or four cars, a power pack, and lengths of track, he stopped, checking them out, comparing one to another.

Nabler chose not to bother him, at least not yet. Didn’t want to chase the man away by being pushy. Let the goods speak for themselves.

The man kept coming back to one set that had caught his fancy. It came with two boxcars that saidsantafeon the side, a tank car, one flatcar with a small helicopter attached, and a second one whose load was a mini-submarine. There was even a red caboose. The most important item was a black metal steam engine and matching tender withpennsylvaniaemblazoned on the side.

The man held the box in his hands, contemplating. Nabler wasn’tsure whether the man had even noticed he was there, so he discreetly cleared his throat.

The man turned, smiled. “Oh, hey. You the owner?”

“Mr. Choo at your service,” he said, touching the brim of his engineer cap in a mini-salute.

“Mr. Choo?”

Edwin smiled. “My nom de plume, as it were. But you may call me Edwin.”

“This is a nice train set.”

“It’s one of our biggest sellers,” Nabler said, coming out from behind the counter. “And we sell all manner of accessories to go along with it.” He waved a hand at his shelves. “Buildings and trees and crossing signals. Everything you could want to make your own miniature empire.” He paused. “Thinking of something for a little boy or girl?”

The man looked sheepish. “I’m thinking of getting it for myself.”

“Why not? We all need a hobby, don’t we? And, to be honest, we’re all still kids on the inside. We never outgrow the toys we had as children. I still have my Slinky.”

“Oh God, I had one of those. What was the jingle?”

Edwin sang a couple of lines: “Everyone knows it’s Slinky, everyone knows it’s Slinky.”

“Thing is, I always wanted a train set when I was a kid but my folks didn’t have money for something like that. I had a friend, he had a super Lionel setup, and I would go over to his house and play with it. I was so envious.”

“It’s never too late,” Nabler said.

“Can we open this up so I can get a better look at it?”

“Of course.”

Nabler took the set from his hands and placed it on the counter by the register. He carefully opened the end flaps of the box andwas starting to slide out the entire Styrofoam tray that held all the pieces securely when the man said, “That’s far enough. I just wanted a peek at the engine.”

“Have a gander. I’ve told youmyname. What’s yours?”

The man extended a hand. “Wendell Comstock.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Comstock.”

“Wendell.”