Arthur picked his pen back up and didn’t answer.

The clock above the slushie machine at the gas station said ten after one when the front door chime sounded.

Carl Vance came out of the back stockroom with his wooden clipboard under his arm.

He tapped its hard edge against his leg as he walked over to my register.

The air by the counter smelled of sweet syrup and vanilla ice cream from a root beer float a trucker had bought five minutes before.

“You look like you’re hauling a hundred pounds of wet gravel, boss,” Carl said.