A day Jane dreaded.

Since her husband had died in a car accident several years earlier, Jane's practical, sensible oldest child had been her mainstay. She was realizing the truth of something her mother often said: that about the time your kids get to be real people whom you like, they go away.

“Quit daydreaming," Shelley said. "I think we have a customer.”

A man was approaching, slapping a Snellen Museum brochure against the palm of his hand. He was plump and vaguely unhealthy-looking, with graying blond hair and a sparse Douglas Fairbanks-style mustache. He wore baggy plaid shorts and a Snellen Museum Pea Pickin' T-shirt that was much too tight. He strolled along the length of the counter, critically surveying the merchandise, picking things up, setting them down, shaking his head as if angry.

Shelley asked him cheerfully if there was anything in particular he wanted, and he merely grunted a rude negative. After examining everything, he said to her, "So what do you sell this junk for?”

Shelley's eyes flashed, but she answered pleasantly. "The prices are marked on each item."

“Yeah, but what does the museum make on each thing? What percentage?”

Shelley drew herself up indignantly. "I have no idea. Nor can I imagine why you need to know.”

He wasn't cowed. "I'm interested 'cause I'm a Snellen, lady. My family funds this operation.”

But Shelley wasn't easily intimidated, either. "Then you surely have access to that information without being rude to a volunteer."