Jillian was nearing Asbury Park, a town that had always been an alluring place for musicians. It was home to the Stone Pony, a bar Bruce Springsteen performed at often in his early career. After years of decay Asbury Park was finally enjoying a slow but steady resurgence, thanks to building and renovation. New bars, restaurants, and lounges where musicians could perform had sprung up. I wouldn’t mind living here, Jillian thought. The Perones seem to love it.

The Perones were the owners of the house where Jillian was headed. A couple in their early thirties, they were on a spiritual cleansing kick and believed that if they got rid of their junk, they’d be more creative and productive. Striker was a musician and Harriet worked in sales at a radio station. Jillian had helped Harriet go through the house, and had to be kind but firm, just like she was with Edna. People had a hard time letting go of their possessions.

The Perones’ garage sale was beginning at 2:00. It was now 12:30. Plenty of time to assemble everything out on their patch of front lawn. No helpers needed. Jillian and Harriet and Striker would handle the sales themselves.

Jillian turned onto their street. The quiet block resembled a ghost town. The sun was beating down and there were few trees to provide shade. Even optimistic, glass-is-half-full Jillian felt a teensy bit nervous as she pulled down to the small house and turned into the tiny driveway. There were no people waiting out front. Jillian had posted signs in the morning all over town. There were always garage sale addicts who staked out a place in line hours before sales started, paranoid that they’d miss out on a good bargain. Some of them were downright scary.

Jillian wasn’t even out of her car when a barefoot Striker came out the front door wearing his usual black jeans, black T-shirt, and an odd assortment of metal chains around his neck.

“Hi, Striker,” Jillian said cheerily, thinking that he probably just rolled out of bed. Striker often played until the wee hours of the morning in bars around town. “Ready to stage our sale?”

Striker pointed his finger at her. “I have to talk to you,” he said angrily.

Jillian closed her car door. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What’s wrong? Do you see any line? No one’s going to bother coming here with that other sale going on—the one with Cleo Paradise’s stuff. We booked you first for today and that sale is stealing all the attention! You wasted our time!”