Harold and I are walking down the street when he spots a Star Trek book on a bottom shelf of a crowded bookshelf, in the window of a closed store. He was talking, but he cuts off midsentence to drop to his knees and peer through the window.
“I can’t make out the full title,” he says. This is probably because the store is closed, and it’s dark, and also the bookshelf in question is halfway behind another piece of furniture.
“Don’t worry, it’s clearly a Chinese knockoff,” I said.
“Really? How can you tell?”
“There’s simply no other explanation for Star Trek paraphenalia you don’t already own.”