I looked down the gravel road toward the interstate, where Mark was driving his mother and sister to the lake resort.

He had no idea the credit card in his leather wallet had just been capped at fifty dollars.

I walked down the porch steps to help my father unload the truck.

The sun was sinking below the tree line, throwing long shadows across the dusty yard.

My phone buzzed once in my pocket.

It was an automated text alert from the credit card portal, showing a pending authorization attempt at a highway gas station thirty miles west of town.

The amount was sixty-two dollars for premium fuel.