The Attendant's Booth

At half past one she walked down the ramp with a red plastic can swinging at her side. The attendant's booth glowed at the mouth of the garage, a lonely outpost of hums and buzzes. The old man inside barely raised his eyes from a paperback.

"Three gallons," she said, laying a crumpled twenty on the counter. "And a cup of that coffee, if it's still honest."

He nodded at the pot in the corner and watched her fill the can from the maintenance pump under the buzzing fluorescents. Three gallons — just enough to get her across the county line, past the dark pine ridges, and up the driveway that had been waiting all this time.

"Fuel gets you where you're going," he said as she picked up the cup. "What you do once you arrive is your business."