On this particular Tuesday morning, before the shop had even opened—the sign in the window said our hours of fun are 9:30–5:00!—two boys on their way to school had stopped to admire the window display: a loop of track about five feet across with a New Haven diesel engine and three passenger cars going around and around, disappearing briefly on each loop into a tunnel built into a mountain prop. Even when the store was closed, the train was left to run twenty-four hours a day.

The boys, both eleven years old, stared at the train, one more transfixed than the other. “It’s kinda cool,” one said.

“It’s for little kids,” said the other dismissively. “Slot cars are better. You can race them. You can’t race trains.”

“My uncle’s got a big setup in his basement. He’s got a station and a water tower and signals and crossings and all kinds of other shit.”

“When’d this place open anyway?”

The other boy shrugged. They agreed the place was worth checking out on their way home once school was over.

One person who had, so far, shown not the slightest interest in the new shop was sitting behind the wheel of a plain white four-door sedan with a red light on the roof and the words lucknow police department printed on the side. It pulled into an angled parking spot out front of the Lucknow Diner. There were two other diners in town, but, as they had come later, they lost rights to name themselves after the town in which they did business. Not unlike the train shop, no one quite remembered when the Lucknow Diner first started serving up bacon and eggs and French toast and the best coffee in this corner of the state, but they did know it had more or less been here forever.

The man behind the wheel of the police car killed the engine but took a moment before opening the door. Chief Harry Cook closed his eyes briefly, yawned, and put his head back on the headrest. Only nine in the morning and already he needed a nap. He’d been up since three, and hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly one in the morning, so the fact that he was even operating on two hours’ sleep was a minor miracle.

Harry allowed himself fifteen seconds to recharge. He knew if he took any longer he’d nod right off, and he didn’t have time for that. But he would take time for a cup, or possibly two, of the Lucknow Diner’s coffee. He didn’t know what was in it—caffeine with a touch of nitroglycerine was his best guess—and it was just as well, because if he did he might have to arrest the manager. But Harry was confident it would give him strength to make it at least until noon.