Jerry peeked over the towers of stacked, mismatched china that balanced precariously on top of a rickety antique shelf. In the parking lot, a shiny black Audi SUV had been idling for at least half an hour. As a matter of principal, Jerry never lifted the large metal door on the garage-turned-junk shop a minute before, nor a minute after 10 ‘o clock. Being that it was 9:57 AM, this gave Jerry a bit longer to speculate. It was unusual to have customers waiting at the door when the shop opened. It was getting to be unusual to have customers at all these days, especially ones in fancy cars. Times were tough for the residents of this shrinking, middle-of-nowhere town in South Georgia. It seemed lately that most visitors to the store were stopping by in hopes of selling their junk for a little cash, rather than buy more.

Several clocks scattered about the store, all set to time, announced opening time with a chorus of chimes. Jerry stepped around the counter, awkwardly squeezing his shoulders around a hanging banjo and maneuvering around a red vintage stool and a marble plant stand holding a Murano bunch bowl. He pulled up the garage door to find himself standing face to face with a short, well-dressed man wearing aviator sunglasses.

“Jerry Riggs?” he asked, in a way that suggested he already knew the answer.

Jerry nodded uncertainly, but attempted a smile. “What can I do ya for?” he asked, in his standard greeting to customers.

“Three years ago,” said the man, “You purchased a set of old books - a series of novels - from a local man who has since died. Do you remember?”

“Eh, I think so…” Jerry responded, glancing to the side as if cast about in thought. His eyes caught those of David, a marble statue he had picked up at an estate sale three towns over. “Right…I believe Jonas Lawrence did sell me some books a handful of years ago before he got sick. Lord knows if I can dig them out from under all this mess.” Then, after a pause, “Excuse this nosy old man, but what about some old books would bring a young outta-towner like you to a place like this?”

“I won’t bother with the pretenses,” the stranger said. “I work for a fine arts and collectibles dealer in Atlanta and have been working to find those books for a client for two years. The books belonged to Jonas Lawrence’s grandfather, Rufus Lawrence. What Jonas presumably didn’t know was that his grandfather authored the books under a pseudonym. In fact, we believe them to be not only the first editions, but very first printed copies of the Architects of Eternity series. And to be honest, Mr. Riggs, we are prepared to make you a fair and generous offer for them if you can, er - ‘dig them out’.”