A 1950s pickup approached four ornate dining chairs alongside a rural road. Red velvet cushions accented elaborately carved legs. But the backs were too skinny, the seats too wide. The wood was stained slightly too dark, dulling the red fabric. A drizzle began as the chairs loitered along the road instead of gracing the fine dining room they seemed meant to inhabit. A block-letter sign leaned against the chairs: “FREE” in foot-high red marker. How long had they waited? Tomorrow morning when the sun rises, they would begin to smell and rot. The truck’s brake lights flickered, then sped away.