Looking at that old station, I thought of what it must have meant to the family that had lived there and made their living from that business. A man in charge of a business he owns himself—what a marvelous thing. How many kids had been raised in that upstairs apartment? How many lives had been nurtured and fostered by that little place on the side of the road? And then, to compare that with the sterile entity that stood before me—one where none of the people working inside were either nurtured or enlarged; surviving, at best, as twenty-first-century wage slaves.

My gas tank filled, I stepped across the island and made my way across the oil-stained and littered pavement to the door. Parked at the side of the building were a couple of older cars, both with muddy tires, and one with missing hubcaps. Stationed closest to the door was an ’80s model small Japanese pickup with a cracked windshield and a Confederate flag prominently displayed on the back window. I often think the people who fly that banner in public do so in order to dispel any doubt as to whether the owner is a bigoted ignoramus. This way, by virtue of the emblem, you know so at a glance.

A customer, who I took to be the owner of the truck, was at the counter as I entered. He had a twelve pack of beer at hand and was in deep conversation with the cashier as he made his selection from a rack of lottery tickets. I roamed the aisles for a couple of minutes, picking up a few items, and killed time until the man had concluded his transaction and departed. Then I stepped to the counter.

The cashier was a slight young woman almost hidden by the cash register and the racks of impulse items and other chingadera stacked atop the counter. Her head was down as I approached, but when she looked up, her face, framed by short honey blond hair, was cute and bright, but as she saw me, her eyes took on a glaze of suspicion.

“It’s really coming down today, isn’t it?” I remarked as she rang up my items.

“That’s twenty-three dollars and forty-two cents,” she replied in a flat tone.

I handed her a couple of twenties, and as she made change I asked in a quiet, friendly voice, “Aren’t you Sandy Willis, from over on Panther Creek?”

At my words, a flicker of curiosity touched her face, and as she handed me the change, I introduced myself.

“My name’s Kennesaw Tanner. Joree Causey told me I might find you here.”

With a closely appraising eye, the young woman looked me over for a few seconds before answering, “Yes, I’m Sandy. What can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?

“Tanner, but please call me Kennesaw.”

“Yes, sir—Kennesaw. But what can I do for . . . ?”

And then a startled look came on her face.