He had spied a couple of boys, on their way to school no doubt, looking at the window display earlier, and he had a feeling they might be back, but not until school was over. Anyone who ventured into the store through the day was likely to be an adult. There were many so-called grown-ups who enjoyed the hobby, plenty of dads who, fearing that their interest in toy trains might be mocked, used their children as cover.

“It’s for my son,” a man might say, handing over his money, but you could see the twinkle in his eye.

Ah, the joy of it. The setting of the hook.

But Nabler wasn’t exactly reeling them into the boat like some fisherman out for bass. The Trojan Horse was a better analogy. The customer had to invite him in, take him into their hearth and home. That was when the real magic happened.

Five minutes had passed since turning on the open sign. Mustn’t get impatient. There hadn’t been a lot of time for the townsfolk to notice he was here. It will take as long as it takes, he thought. Just as well that time was something of an abstract concept for Nabler. While committed to punctuality when it came to hours and minutes and seconds, Nabler was vague on days and weeks and months. Was this his first day of business or his second, or third? He wasn’t quite sure. Was this his fourth shop? His fifth? His fifteenth? Hard to say. He had set up shop in so many different places.

All he knew was he was here now, there was much he had already done, and there was much more to do.

It was a quiet morning until shortly after eleven, when a man in his late thirties wandered in. Slim, slightly balding. He was wearing a short-sleeved white business shirt even though fall was in the air. Dark brown pants with a perfect crease and a pair of Wallabees on his feet. In the pocket of his shirt was a plastic protector that held several pens. He stepped into the store hesitantly, briefly glancing over his shoulder, as though worried that someone passing by on the sidewalk might see him enter.

But once he was a few steps inside and confident he could not be seen from the street, he began to browse. Looking through the plastic windows on each of the boxes, picking up the occasional one for closer examination. When he got to the larger box sets, comprised of an engine, three or four cars, a power pack, and lengths of track, he stopped, checking them out, comparing one to another.

Nabler chose not to bother him, at least not yet. Didn’t want to chase the man away by being pushy. Let the goods speak for themselves.