"Oh," Collins said.
Mrs. Comstock produced the scroll from her voluminous handbag. "You want to sign, don't you? They're going to put part of the airport on your place. They'll tear down your house."
"They can't tear it down. I won't sell."
"You know government men. They'll just take it and give you some money for it. Sign right there at the top of the new column, Sam."
Collins shook his head. "I don't believe in signing things. They can't take what's mine."
"But Sam, dear, they will. They'll come in and push your house down with those big tractors of theirs. They'll bury it in concrete and set off those guided missiles of theirs right over it."
"They can't make me get out," Sam said.
Ed Michaels scooped up a pound, one ounce of nails and spilled them onto his scale. He pinched off the excess, then dropped it back in and fed the nails into a brown paper bag. He crumpled the top and set it on the counter. "That's twenty-nine plus one, Sam. Thirty cents."
Collins laid out a quarter and a nickel and picked up the bag. "Appreciate you doing this after store hours, Ed."