Cymbalene was one more irritation that had crept into his already busy day, and it was enough to make TJ's fiery red hair stand on end. Earlier that morning, there had been an accident at the other end of Main Street. A buggy trying to miss several pedestrians had knocked over a street lamp. Fortunately, both the driver and the lamp pole had only a few bruises.

While TJ was absorbed in the sights and sounds and smells of NeverWas, a pigeon flew within a few inches of his face, making a loud swoosh. “Well, I never!” he said in a gruff voice.

Since Cymbalene Jot had come to NeverWas a year ago to take over the newspaper, lots of folk were saying, “Well, I never,” even more than usual. Her last editorial had been enough to make folks see red—or in TJ's case, purple and red. In fact, three times already since breakfast, sparks of red and purple had flashed in front of his eyes for a second or two.

TJ crossed the road and turned the corner near Blackie’s Pasture into Main Street, not even noticing the two ladies chatting outside the butcher’s shop.

Nearing the Birds of a Feather Inn, the town’s restaurant, his nose wrinkled up, catching the scent of something he could not identify. Without hesitating, he gave the front door a shove, waving the newspaper in front of him as he entered. “That woman is going to drive me completely mad!”