I went inside and set the heavy pile of change on the counter.

The cashier didn’t look up from his phone.

“Pump four,” I said.

I walked back outside and squeezed two dollars and eighty cents of cheap gas into the tank.

The pump clicked off almost immediately.

It barely moved the needle on the dashboard.

I needed to stretch that splash of fuel until Arthur found the records Beatrice had buried.

If I ran out of gas, I would have to walk to my shift at the market.