Gauge is undone. His Dragon Tails are missing from the invoice. Though he is sure he ordered them, there is no mention of them on the carbon papers he holds in his hands, which shake. His Juggler’s Jubilee Grand Display sets, all one hundred of them, sit plastic-bound on a pallet in the back room; all he can think to do is stare, stare, stare. Wait for the old hick. Hold a cigarette quivering to his lips. He should set right to work, stack them up into a pyramid, a tower, something fun. Instead he stares. Waits. Undone. The M-80s are gone, Gauge thinks as he breaks up. Fucking gone. Fucking little bastard, Gauge thinks. He holds his breath.