Inside the store, cold air from the air conditioning struck my face the moment the glass door slid open.

Jose Cruz stood behind the register in his clean red polo shirt, straightening a tidy stack of printed paper receipts.

He was twenty years old, spending his early mornings in classes at the community college and his afternoons pulling double shifts behind the register.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.

Briggs,” he said quietly, with his ever-polite little nod.

“Hello, Jose,” I said, laying two twenties and a twenty-dollar bill on the black rubber counter mat.

“Fifty-eight thirty-five on pump number four.”