The next person to notice the sign in lane 3 of the Quik-Save is wearing a leather jacket. He seems to be in a hurry, as if somebody is sitting outside in a car with the engine running, parked in a tow-away zone, eagerly awaiting his return. Perhaps some illicit affairs are left undone.

He reaches the cash register, where he drops down on the static conveyor belt (the kind which moves during the day) a pack of Marlboro Lights, some Trident gum, a box of Lifestyles condoms (the box bearing some illogical promise of impending happiness), and a plastic container of soda, shaped to resemble a soda bottle of old.

His name is Stuart, but when he is present at the nightclubs he frequents, he prefers to be called Zu. For whatever reason. In his own mind, he is not Stuart, but Zu. In his dreams at night, he is Zu.

In any case, he is standing in lane 3, and he sees the sign taped to the back of the cash register's digital readout. He glances at it for just a second, as if it were just another advertisement, and then his eyes go elsewhere. But a moment or two later, he looks back at the crude sign, his eyes a little bit wider, and he focuses there for a moment.

"What does that say?" he asks, assuming that the girl behind the counter will understand him.

"It says just what you think," she says, and then she says nothing more, but busies herself with making his change.

"How much for it?" he asks.

"Ten dollars," she replies. "Well, nine dollars and ninety-five cents. Plus tax. Says so right there on the sign."

"Issat all?"

"That's all." She continues counting, and focuses her attention on the cash drawer for which she is responsible.

"Damn," he says, picking up his bag of items and heading toward the door, "Shame I don't have any more cash on me. Gonna hafta come back later for it."

"Yeah," she says, without much enthusiasm. She has heard this promise before.

Another minute and he is gone, back in his world, back in the car. Other places with other things to do.

Jerome and Sheila are at the Quik-Save later than they usually would be. Ordinarily, they do their shopping on Sunday evenings, but this weekend was particularly hectic, in keeping with the pace of the week that led up to it. So here it is, Tuesday night and just a few seconds before midnight, and they are shoving a few hastily-chosen items into a cart, things they will eat at some point this week while wishing they were eating something else. It is not long before they too are walking down lane 3.

They too see the little cream-colored star made out of construction paper, outlined in black (someone clearly took a thick felt-tip marker and rubbed it around the edge of the cut), and at first pay it no attention, thinking it to be some last-ditch effort at one more impulse buy.

But Jerome is a sharp fellow, and he pauses when he reads the words written on the sign. And he too looks up at the girl behind the register, with some small measure of wonder.

"Is that some kind of joke?"

"Nope," she says. There is nothing interesting about her life.

"What is that, the name of a band or something?"

"Huh? No, no, it's just … it's just, that. Ten bucks."

Jerome stares at the words, his artist mind (he is a painter of average talent) reeling.

In plain lettering, very matter-of-factly scripted in bold Sharpie pen, the sign simply reads: "Peace on Earth, $9.95."

Jerome turns to Sheila, saying nothing, just pointing at the sign. A big grin is on his face. "Look at this, hon," he says, beaming the mischievous smile that first made her fall in love with him. "Peace on Earth, just ten bucks."

Sheila is unloading the last few items from the front of the cart. She looks up long enough to see what he is pointing at; she squints at it for a moment, then goes back to the unloading. "Ten bucks? What is it, some kinda religious book?"

Jerome looks at the checkout girl, his raised eyebrow repeating the question his mate just posed. The girl shakes her head. "Look, all I know is what my boss told me. It is what it says it is. Ten bucks."

Sheila gives a little laugh. "That's okay," she says, "we're fine with what we've got."

"But honey!" Jerome protests cheerily while trying to help with the last few cans of soup. "It's just ten bucks! Come on, what a conversation starter, huh?"

Sheila just shakes her head. "Honey, we don't have the time or the money for this, okay? I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I just want to go home. Can we just pay and go home?"

Jerome concedes with a slight dip of his head. "Well," he says, while writing out the check, "maybe we can come back tomorrow and see if it's still here." With this he winks at the girl behind the counter. She does not wink back.

The final customer of the night is Jack. He too notices the sign, he too thinks about it a good deal longer than most. He too considers making the purchase.

In fact, he thinks it might be something like a good idea, if only he had some kind of proof. Some kind of guarantee.

So he looks at the girl running the check-out, he sees that her name-tag says "Lynda," and he asks her

"So tell me, Lynda, if I decide to purchase this, how do I know … you know … that it's really going to happen?"

Lynda pops her gum. This really isn't her department. "I dunno. I guess you could get your money back if, um, it doesn't."

Jack is a sensible man, but he likes to think that he is willing to be spontaneous when the situation demands. He vaguely remembers something he read once in a self-help book, something about "living in the moment." He flits through his wallet to see if he has an extra ten. He does.

But with a wayward glance, he looks out the store window and sees his car, parked in the fire lane with the engine running. He sees his wife in the driver's seat, and over the hushed tones of the in-store music, he thinks he can hear her leaning on the car's horn.

Thinking better of this particular act of living in the moment, he pays for the few things he is purchasing, and goes back to the car. But before he goes, he too offers up a vaguely shaped promise to return later, money in hand and time to spare.

The Quik-Save is closing for the night. 2 AM. Lights out. A small phalanx of stock boys and sweepers sets into motion, getting the store ready for a new rebirth just four hours away.

The store manager is gathering his coat and heading toward the door. He has had a long day, and is looking forward to the mere half-hour he will spend in his recliner before eventually falling asleep from exhaustion, likely with the television still on.

But on the way out, he stops by lane 3, and sees that the little construction paper sign he fashioned earlier in the day is still there. The girls were instructed to take it down if anyone purchased it.

He sighs, takes it down himself, and crumples it into his pocket.