I could already picture the look on his face when I walked in.
That gap toothed grin that made every double shift almost worth it.
“Milk, bread, gas,” I muttered to myself, hands tight on the wheel. “Just make it through the week, Sara.”
Eli was waiting at my sister’s place.
I pulled into the gas station on Route 9.
The one with the flickering sign and the ice machine that hummed too loudly.
That’s where I noticed him.
An older man, around seventy, sat slumped against the wall in a heavy winter coat.
His hands shook around a paper cup.
His coffee sloshed with every tremor.
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