PART 1: THE MAN WHO DECLARED WAR ON SLEEP

At exactly 4:00 on a Monday morning, a hundred alarm clocks began screaming across the Double B Ranch.

Horses kicked their stalls. Chickens flew out of their nests. A milk cow named Duchess panicked so badly that she knocked over two buckets and chased a farmhand into a water trough.

And standing in the middle of it all, wearing polished boots and a smile of absolute satisfaction, was Bartholomew Briggs.

“Beautiful!” he shouted. “The sound of productivity!”

His foreman, Hank Miller, emerged from the bunkhouse wearing one boot, half a shirt, and the expression of a man reconsidering every decision he’d made since birth.

“Boss,” Hank said slowly, “why does the outhouse have an alarm clock?”

“Efficiency, Hank.”

“Efficiency for what?”

“Bathroom scheduling.”

Hank stared at him.

“You’ve officially lost your mind.”

Bartholomew ignored him and consulted the silver pocket watch hanging from his vest.

“You’re forty-three seconds late.”

“I was asleep.”

“Precisely the problem.”

In the small Arizona town of Mercy Creek, everyone knew Bartholomew Briggs had a peculiar relationship with time.

He was forty-eight years old, owned the largest cattle ranch in the county, and believed that every minute not spent working was a personal insult.

He timed breakfast. He timed lunch. He once dismissed a ranch hand for taking seven minutes to sneeze, although the unfortunate fellow insisted that six of those minutes involved looking for his handkerchief.

His wife, Margaret, had endured twenty-three years of marriage to a man who considered sleeping past sunrise an act of moral failure.

But even Margaret had not been prepared for the arrival of the clocks.

Three days earlier, Bartholomew had returned from Tucson with six enormous wooden crates strapped to his wagon.

Margaret watched him unload them.

“Please tell me those are chairs.”

“Better.”

“A new stove?”

“Much better.”

“Bartholomew, if you’ve bought another mechanical back scratcher, I’m leaving.”

He opened the first crate.

Inside were rows of shiny brass alarm clocks.

Margaret blinked.

“What in heaven’s name is this?”

“One hundred mechanical alarm clocks. Imported from a respected manufacturer in Chicago.”

“One hundred?”

“At a considerable discount.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Margaret went very still.

“You spent two hundred dollars on things that tell people to wake up?”

“Not merely wake up. They will regulate our entire operation. Feeding times. Milking times. Rest periods. Equipment maintenance. Every activity will begin precisely when scheduled.”

“And when do people get to breathe?”

“I’ve allowed three minutes after lunch.”

Margaret closed her eyes.

“I should’ve married the undertaker.”

“What?”

“At least his customers get to rest.”

By Sunday afternoon, Bartholomew had installed clocks in places no reasonable person would ever consider appropriate.

There were twelve in the main barn, eight in the stables, six in the kitchen, and four in the chicken coop.

Two hung beside the water pump.

One was nailed to a fence post overlooking the pasture.

Another was mounted above the ranch’s only outhouse.

He even strapped a small alarm clock to his favorite horse’s saddle.

The horse, Napoleon, responded by throwing the clock into a cactus patch.

“Ungrateful animal,” Bartholomew muttered.

Margaret watched from the porch.

“He’s the smartest creature on this property.”

The first morning was a catastrophe.

At 4:00, the clocks rang.

At 4:05, another group rang to remind the workers they should already be dressed.

At 4:15, the breakfast clocks exploded into a metallic chorus.

At 4:22, a clock in the chicken coop announced egg collection.

The chickens, having been awake for twenty-two miserable minutes, refused to cooperate.

By breakfast, the ranch hands looked like survivors of a particularly unpleasant military campaign.

“I dreamed a church bell was chasing me,” young Billy Dawson complained.

“Lucky you,” Hank replied. “I dreamed I was married to one.”

Bartholomew entered the dining room carrying a clipboard.

“Gentlemen, our first morning has revealed several opportunities for improvement.”

“Such as removing the clocks?” Hank suggested.

“Such as increasing their volume.”

Seven forks stopped moving.

Margaret calmly poured coffee.

“Bartholomew, darling, may I ask something?”

“Certainly.”

“When was the last time you enjoyed a quiet morning?”

He considered the question.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever wasted time doing that.”

“What a terrible shame.”

He mistook her pity for admiration.

Things became worse on Tuesday.

Bartholomew introduced a new rule: every employee had to synchronize his personal watch with the large clock in the ranch office.

Anyone arriving more than thirty seconds late would lose ten cents from his wages.

Anyone arriving early would receive no additional payment.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Billy protested.

“Time is money,” Bartholomew declared.

Hank leaned toward Billy.

“Funny how it’s always our money.”

By Wednesday, the clocks had begun terrorizing neighboring properties.

Mrs. Eleanor Pickett, whose farmhouse stood across the creek, complained that she hadn’t slept properly in three nights.

The schoolteacher reported that her students had started ringing imaginary bells whenever someone sneezed.

Even Reverend Thomas Bell appeared at the ranch with dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Mr. Briggs,” the reverend said, “the Lord created the night for rest.”

“And the morning for work.”

“Yes, but I doubt He intended to announce it with one hundred brass instruments.”

Bartholomew folded his arms.

“Reverend, progress always meets resistance.”

“So does a mule with a thorn in its backside. That doesn’t make the thorn a good idea.”

Bartholomew refused to listen.

In fact, he became convinced that the town simply needed more discipline.

On Thursday, he rode into Mercy Creek and delivered a speech outside the general store.

“Our greatest enemy is wasted time!” he announced to a crowd of twelve irritated residents and one sleeping dog.

“A disciplined man is a successful man!”

Old Gus Fletcher, the town blacksmith, raised his hand.

“What about a disciplined man who won’t let anybody else sleep?”

“That man is a visionary.”

“That man,” Gus replied, “is fixing to get punched.”

The crowd laughed.

Bartholomew did not.

He returned home and ordered Hank to move ten additional clocks closer to the ranch’s eastern boundary.

“Why?” Hank asked.

“So the neighbors can benefit from our schedule.”

“Boss, the neighbors are threatening to burn our schedule.”

“They’ll thank me eventually.”

Hank looked toward the sky.

“Lord, if you’re listening, send a little common sense down here.”

Unfortunately, what arrived that evening was not common sense.

It was a storm.

A powerful wind swept across Mercy Creek shortly after midnight, rattling windows and bending the cottonwood trees beside the creek.

Inside the Double B Ranch, dozens of cheaply manufactured clocks began slipping out of synchronization.

Some had been wound too tightly.

Others had been set incorrectly.

Several were already running fast.

And the wind, shaking loose shelves and wooden supports, sent a handful tumbling onto their sides.

At 12:17 a.m., the first alarm sounded.

RIIIIIIING!

Bartholomew opened one eye.

“Impossible,” he muttered.

At 12:19, another alarm rang inside the barn.

At 12:21, three more began shrieking.

At 12:24, the entire chicken coop erupted.

Margaret sat upright in bed.

“Bartholomew.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Your clocks are having a nervous breakdown.”

He grabbed his pocket watch.

“There must be a mechanical discrepancy.”

“There’s about to be a marital discrepancy if you don’t make them stop.”

He hurried outside in his nightshirt.

What he found was chaos.

Hank was running between buildings carrying a bucket of water, apparently considering drowning the clocks.

Billy had buried two beneath a pile of manure.

Napoleon the horse was kicking his stall door.

And Duchess the cow had escaped into the vegetable garden.

Every few minutes, another bell began ringing.

Then another.

Then five more.

The noise rolled across the valley like a traveling orchestra composed entirely of angry kitchen utensils.

At 1:03 a.m., a lantern appeared on the road.

Then another.

And another.

Within fifteen minutes, half the town of Mercy Creek was marching toward the Double B Ranch.

Leading the procession was Gus Fletcher, wearing his nightcap and carrying a large wooden crate.

Beside him walked Reverend Bell, Mrs. Pickett, the schoolteacher, and Sheriff Walter Boone.

None of them looked pleased.

Bartholomew stepped toward the gate.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Gus smiled without humor.

“Evening, Bart.”

“It’s one in the morning!”

“We know.”

“Decent people should be asleep!”

For one beautiful second, nobody spoke.

Then Margaret’s laughter erupted from the porch.

Gus slowly set down his crate.

“That’s exactly what we’ve come to discuss.”

Bartholomew looked past him.

More townspeople were arriving.

Some carried blankets. Others carried chairs. Several held strange metal objects beneath their arms.

And every one of them was heading directly toward his house.

“Sheriff!” Bartholomew demanded. “Are you going to allow this trespassing?”

Sheriff Boone adjusted his hat.

“Well, Bart, I reckon a man who believes everybody should live by a schedule ought to appreciate a scheduled community meeting.”

“At this hour?”

“Especially at this hour.”

Then Gus opened the wooden crate.

Inside were dozens of alarm clocks.

Bartholomew stared.

“Where did you get those?”

Gus grinned.

“From your own barns, mostly. A few folks brought extras from home.”

“What are you planning to do with them?”

Before Gus could answer, Margaret stepped off the porch carrying Bartholomew’s favorite rocking chair.

She placed it in the middle of the front yard, directly beneath his bedroom window.

Then she smiled at her husband.

“Darling, the town has voted.”

“Voted on what?”

Margaret glanced at the growing mountain of clocks.

“Your new bedtime schedule.”

And when Gus reached into his pocket and pulled out a handwritten timetable, Bartholomew discovered something far more terrifying than a hundred ringing alarm clocks.

The first alarm was scheduled for 1:30 a.m.—and the final one wouldn’t ring until sunrise.