It was peaceful in the antique mall on this damp Monday. There were no customers, just the intoxicating fumes of neat’s-foot oil and furniture wax, the soporific drone of the traffic on 90, and the little patter of rain on the metal roof. Charlene was just thinking how warm she was, how her back didn’t hurt at all, and how she could almost go to sleep, and the next thing she knew her head snapped back and her eyes flew open. There was a little crash and a cry, “Jesus God!”

A man stepped back from the shards of a broken cup, staring wildly at Charlene. He sank down in the wing chair and put his head down.

“You scared me to death,” he said. “I thought you were one of those plaster statues that look so real.” He put a hand on Charlene’s knee. His eyes were wide and wild. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were alive.”

From all that peace and quiet, the cozy little room was suddenly a bustle of activity. There was Clarence with the broom and the dustpan, the man stood up and staggered back, not quite ready—and reached for his wallet. Charlene, in that confused state of people who have just woken up in a public place, wondered, Did I drool? Was my mouth hanging open? Embarrassed to look the man in the face, she watched his hands fumble out a wad of money from a pocket and slide off the rubber band. She saw the big old face of Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin, Ben Franklin, flipping out from under his thumb, while Clarence held up both hands and said, “No, no, no, put your money away. It was just a piece of cheap blue transferware.”

“Just let’s all sit down for a minute,” said Clarence. He brought a pot of tea and some little cookies. There was an awkward silence, just the rain on the roof and in the distance a police siren heading west.

“I’m sorry I scared you so bad,” said Charlene. “I know that can startle a person, when you think things are one way and then you suddenly find out it’s something entirely different.”

“I’m just jumpy,” said the man. “I’m trying to get to Pensacola. I haven’t slept in a couple of days.” He took a handful of Clarence’s cookies. “I don’t know if I’m sleepier or hungrier.”

“What ails you?” said Charlene. “Why can’t you sleep?”

The man munched and munched on his mouthful of cookies and closed his eyes. He lolled his head back and took a deep, ragged breath. “Oh,” he said, and thought awhile. “I just miss Johnny Cash so bad, that’s all.”

“Well, you ought to go on home and get in the bed,” said Charlene. “You need your sleep.”