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Edwin Nabler was settling into Lucknow just fine, thank you very much.

It always took a little bit of time to acclimatize to a new place. Over the last six decades—or was it seven, or maybe five,

it was hard to say—he’d set up shop in a number of locales. There was Des Moines, which was nice until it wasn’t. How long

was he there, again? Two years, three? Something like that. And he had nice memories from Bradenton. Lots of retirees down

there in Florida. Old guys looking for something to do. Even the geezers who’d traded a good-sized house in Rhode Island or

Pennsylvania or Massachusetts for a cramped mobile home would find a way to set up a loop of track, maybe even a couple of

sidings, in a bedroom that barely offered enough room to change your mind.

But, as charming as it was in Florida—the weather was, of course, much preferable to Des Moines, or the period he spent in

Denver—Edwin chose not to stay that long. Less than two years. Not particularly challenging. Those folks were already in God’s

Waiting Room. They’d moved down there because they knew the end was near, that the land of palm trees and hurricanes was the

last place they were going to wake up in the morning until the day came that they didn’t. What kind of surprises could he

really throw at them? What tragedy—big or small—would have the kind of impact he was looking for?

Philadelphia had its moments, no doubt about that. Hung out his shingle next to an ice-cream shop, which was good for bringing in the kids and their parents. But damned if he didn’t gain ten pounds in the time he was there, and ice cream wasn’t even something he’d thought he liked.

Sometimes he simply grew weary of a location; other times he felt an urgency to move on. There had been occasions when the

locals started to get an inkling of what might be happening, who might be responsible. When all rational explanations had

been exhausted, they considered the irrational, and that pointed them in Edwin’s direction. Then he’d pack up and slip away

into the night.

So now here he was in Lucknow, which seemed to be as good a place as any. Who knew how long he might stay? He’d met the local

chief of police this morning, and while it was the briefest of interactions, Edwin did not get the sense this was a man he

needed to be concerned about. He knew what the chief’s current preoccupation was, and had little doubt he was out of his league

when it came to solving crimes. After all, if he was any kind of policeman, why would he still be here in Podunk?

Yes, Lucknow seemed perfect to Edwin. He’d set up his own coffee machine—he’d brought a cup to that sad sack Gavin this morning—but

he’d have to spend more time in that diner, not counting the few furtive visits he’d made, in and out so fast no one noticed.

And he would want to get to know his fellow shopkeepers. Make himself known to the local business improvement association.

Find out if there were any upcoming street fests when he could set up a display on the sidewalk. He’d heard talk about one

coming up very soon.

He had always lived in his shop, regardless of which city he’d set up in. Threw down a mattress in the back to curl up on when he needed to recharge, but the truth was he didn’t sleep much. Did some of his best work at night, in fact. He liked to be busy. Since arriving in Lucknow, he’d worked pretty much around the clock.

Although, if he was honest with himself, it was all starting to wear on him. More and more these days, his thoughts turned

to the idea of retirement. If someone were to become privy to Nabler’s secrets they might have guessed him to be ageless,

immortal even, but such was not the case. Everyone ran out of gas eventually. One of these days—not too soon, but again, time

was all somewhat relative to Edwin—he would turn his attention to a successor, someone he could mentor, but he hadn’t reached

that point quite yet.

He was in the back of the shop, where customers did not wander unless invited, working diligently on making the magic happen.

If someone entered the front of the store, the door-mounted bell would alert him. With the exception of the visit by Wendell

Comstock, it had been a slow morning, and Edwin didn’t want to spend the day twiddling his thumbs by the cash register. He

was not worried. Pretty soon he’d have all the business he could handle. He always did.

And, while Mr. Comstock had not made a purchase, Edwin knew the hook had been set, that he would be back, if not today then

maybe tomorrow. The tingle had been particularly strong with that collection of trains Comstock had been examining. That had

often been an issue for Edwin Nabler, maintaining consistent quality. Not everything he sold had the same potency. Oh, all

his products looked the same. The paint jobs, the lettering on the sides of the various cars, the authentic logos of the various

North American railroads, were all executed perfectly. The train wheels turned freely, the track sections went together snugly.

But it was the indefinable resonance of the trains that most demanded Edwin’s attention.

There was a lot that went into it, and that was why Edwin was in the back of the shop today, looking at what he had accomplished

to date and what was left to be done.

It only stood to reason that a toy train shop proprietor would construct his own layout, display, whatever you wanted to call it. Certainly not a diorama . That suggested something small. What Edwin was building was nothing short of grand. A magnificent stage on which his trains

were the players. Long stretches of track. Graceful curves. Mountains and valleys and rivers and lakes. Small towns with a

post office and a gas station and maybe even a diner just like the one across the street. (Lots of opportunities for whimsy

here. For example, Edwin’s eatery was not named after the town, but featured a sign that read sam ’n’ ella’s eats .)

Edwin loved to incorporate everyday items into his display, so-called “found objects.” The arms from a pair of sunglasses

could be fashioned into a railing, an antenna, or a streetlamp. A lipstick tube made a perfect culvert or exhaust chimney

atop a factory. A Palm Pilot could be turned on its side and made to look like the screen at a drive-in movie theater.

Edwin realized he had been whistling a tune, the words to which would have been familiar to many:

“I’ve been workin ’ on the railroad, all the livelong day.”

While enough track had been laid down to allow Edwin to run a train continuously while he puttered about—the constant chuffchuffchuffchuffchuff was a soothing background noise, a Zen-like mantra—only about half of the layout was decorated with scenery. The tracks were

affixed with short screws to narrow strips of plywood that ran across an open-grid network. Soon the spaces between these

strips would be filled with hills and valleys and streets where the various buildings would be placed.

Edwin was about to configure some supports for a new mountain when he heard the bell above the door in the front part of the

shop.

A customer.

Edwin set down his tools, slipped on his vest, and donned his engineer’s cap. He slid open the door that separated the back room from the main shop, entered, and closed the door behind him.

“Hello!” he said cheerily to the woman who had just arrived. “And how are you this lovely day?”

“Oh, just great,” she said, flashing a smile.

Edwin put her age at late thirties. Brown hair, plumpish, glasses.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” she asked. “The store, I mean?”

“Been here awhile,” Edwin said.

“I saw the trains running in the window and couldn’t resist.” She cast her gaze wide, taking in the various items, then zeroed

in on some steam engines in a glass case by the cash register. “These are just so cute,” she said.

Ah, cute , Edwin thought. Women always thought the hobby was cute . Like these fine pieces of miniature machinery were Cabbage Patch Dolls or Beanie Babies. If she reached into her purse and

brought out her wallet before departing, she could think these trains were the cutest goddamn things she’d ever seen.

“It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow,” she said. “I already bought him a football, but somehow it doesn’t seem like enough. He’s

going to be ten, and that’s one of the special birthdays.”

“Oh, you are right about that. Ten, thirteen, sixteen, those are milestones.” He chuckled. “And so’s thirty, and forty.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Feel free to look around, and if you have any questions, just ask. No hard sell here. If the appeal of my offerings isn’t

immediately apparent, nothing I could say will make any difference.”

“Well, isn’t that refreshing?” she said.

He smiled. “I’m Edwin Nabler, by the way, but I also answer to Mr. Choo. Just like it says on the sign over the window.”

“Hello, Mr. Choo ,” she said, smiling broadly and tipping her head. “I love that. It’s adorable.”

God. Cute and adorable.

“I’m Christina Pidgeon. If you think I smell like a dinner roll, it’s because I work down the street at Len’s Bakery.” She

giggled. “My husband says work makes me smell better than my Calgon bath beads. Just finished for the day and was heading

home, when I passed your store and just couldn’t stop myself from coming in.”

“Please. Look around.”

And so she did. Before long, she had discovered the same packaged set that Wendell Comstock had admired.

“I love this. How much is it?”

“I’m afraid that one is spoken for. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s spoken for. There was someone eyeing that this morning and

I’d feel terrible if he came back in before closing and wondered where it had gone.”

“Oh, of course. How about this one next to it? Do you think a boy turning ten would like this?”

“A Chesapeake & Ohio steam loco and tender? How could he not? Comes with a tank car and a caboose and a two-bay coal hopper

and—”

“A what kind of hopper?”

“A car that transports coal. A transformer and all the track you need to get started. It’s one of the finest sets in the store.”

Christina picked up the box in both hands and as she admired it, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Oh my,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fine, I just felt a little something wash over me, there.”

“Maybe you’ve got the bug,” he said.

“The bug?”

He grinned. “The train bug. Once the hobby gets hold of you, it’s hard to shake.”

“Well, I guess I’ve caught it, because... I’m taking this. Ring this up.”

That was exactly what Edwin did. He held the door open for Christina as she departed, and then, not seeing anyone else on the sidewalk who looked like an immediate prospect, he returned to his project in the back.

This mountain was going to go over an existing track. There would be a tunnel, and portals at each end. But the mountain had

to be strong. He didn’t want the whole thing crashing down when a gleaming passenger train was running through it. And it

had to support everything that would go on it. The rocks and trees and weeds and grass.

Edwin looked into the bin he kept on a worktable a couple of steps away from the layout. It contained various odds and ends

that would be incorporated into the structure.

“Yes, let’s start with this,” he said, reaching in and pulling out an off-white stick with rounded ends, like a longer, thicker

turkey bone.

Close at hand were an electric drill, a set of bits, and a box of screws. Edwin found everything he needed.

“Nothing beats a good, solid femur,” Edwin said under his breath.

This time, instead of whistling, he sang. “Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work we go...”

But he drowned himself out as he began to drill holes through bone.