He’d just taken out a pen to doodle an idea for some old-timey lighting for the electricians when Midnight Man appeared. He told Stagg two fellas had come to the Rebel wanting to talk.

“What do they want?”

“Won’t say,” Midnight Man said. “Look like a couple midgets to me. Smell like shit.”

“Must be some carnies,” Stagg said. “Come over to sew up that busted seam on the bouncy house. Send ’em on over.”

Stagg handed the sketch to one of the electricians and headed out the swinging doors, taking pleasure walking on the wooden sidewalk past the open windows that would soon be filled with glass. He looked up at the dark ceiling where they would project the moon and stars, a little slice of American history and wonder right here in Tibbehah County.

Stagg popped a peppermint candy in his mouth and glanced around at the whole world taking shape, hoping they could get that old bouncy house working again. He’d been on the phone for two days with some woman from Florida who’d sold it to him with all the defects, saying she’d never promised perfect condition.

Stagg leaned on the wood railing as the front door opened, filling the darkened space with bright light. Two small figures entered the metal structure, tiny shadows, craning their heads this way and that, checking out all the changes going on inside Fannie’s old titty barn.

The older of the two started chatting up one of his carpenters, asking him what in the hell were they building. The younger one didn’t seem as distracted, soon taking note of Stagg and walking on over to the village, crossing markings where they’d be laying the mini railroad tracks, coming up in front of Stagg’s General Store and removing his dirty baseball hat.

“Mr. Stagg?”

Johnny Stagg nodded.

“I heard you was hiring.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Y’all the ones who know about fixing bouncy houses?”

“Matter of fact we do,” the man said. “We know how to fix all kinds of houses. Especially ones with a bad foundation, maybe in need of some additional security and enforcement.”

“What you driving at, son?” Stagg said. “Ain’t nothing wrong with this foundation. I done poured it myself more than twenty years ago. It’s withstood pole dancing, fistfights, and even an old boy plastered out of his mind on Aristocrat vodka. Drove his truck right through the establishment.”

“Where’s that man Bishop walks behind you?” the little man said. “Tends to your business?”