The clock in the Pontiac-GMC showroom hadn’t stopped, but the salesman in a navy-blue suit sure felt like it had. He sat at his desk clicking a ballpoint pen that hadn’t signed a sales contract in a long, hard while. An iron-grey sky spat near-freezing rain outside, and tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day. No one in small-town New England was likely to waltz in and drop a down payment on a new Grand Am.
Perking up like a bloodhound who’d scented a fox, the salesman hopped from his desk chair and strode across the showroom floor. Someone had walked in.
“Uh, hi, c-can I have a brochure?” stuttered
