I wince. “I don’t have quite that much. Don’t you have one of those backup machines for credit cards during power outages?”

“The backup is cash,” Corey says, rubbing his chin again. He’s clearly enjoying this moment of power. “We got signs outside you could have read.”

“Maybe we missed them,” I say, bristling. Whatever happened to holiday spirit? “There’s kind of an emergency going on outside, and we almost ended up in one of those big accidents, so I’m sorry if we’re a little rattled.”

The father stands up then, the metal legs of the lawn chair scraping the floor. I automatically take a step back from the counter. He’s much broader than his son, with fists that could double as sledgehammers. He looks mean. My animal instinct fires signals through every vein. Danger. This man is dangerous.

The father steps to the counter, and though every cell in my body wants to move farther back, I force myself to stand my ground. I inhale through my nose, smelling tobacco and gasoline and, more distantly, chemicals. Disinfectant. Something that I smelled earlier in the first rest stop, and now I know where it’s from.

Hospitals. Whatever this popular-in-Pennsylvania cleaner is, it’s apparently used in all kinds of institutions. Rest stops. Gas stations. The building where my aunt died.

I shake it off and look up, noting a sign posted on the wall below the racks of cigarettes.

ATTENDANT IS ARMED AND TRAINED.

“Rattled or not, you’d better pool your money together and pay for the gas you already pumped,” the father says, pulling my attention from the sign. “There were plenty of signs. Like I said, I’m closing in twenty minutes.”

“What if we don’t have the cash?” I ask.

“I’ll bet kids like you have plenty of cash between you.”

I don’t know what he means by “kids like you,” but his tone makes it clear it isn’t a compliment.

“I’ll talk to the others,” I say. “We’re not trying to get away with something here. We didn’t see the signs. We didn’t know the machine was down.”

“Not my problem. We got family to get home to, and you need to pay for what you took.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He sits down in the folding chair, the metal legs scraping again. My eyes flick up to that sign about being armed. It could be for show. I hope. But this man has knives in a display case and a promise in his eyes that makes me think he’s not one to throw around idle threats.

“Will there be anything else?” Corey asks, handing me a few coins.

“Can I return this stuff?” I ask. “That will give me some cash.”

“Sorry, no refunds,” he says. He’s practically sneering. I think he likes this—putting me in my place.