“He took away your register seniority,” Carl said.

“Your pay drops two dollars an hour as of right now.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

I took the brass keys from his palm and headed for the back closet to get the scrub brush.

By eight o’clock the summer sun had reached the asphalt at island three, baking the gray concrete until heat rose up around my knees.

Carl came out the side door holding two white foam cups of dark coffee.

He handed me one and stood next to the blue windshield washer tub, looking out at the traffic on the four-lane highway.