Jeanette and Sasha had a routine. They stood off to the side, by the quarter air pumps, out of the sight line of whoever manned the cash register inside the shop. They watched for the right kind of guy getting out of his car. The best bets were guys over thirty, without girlfriends or wives or kids in the car. Jeanette was better at asking than Sasha. She’d never said it to Sasha’s face, of course, but Jeanette knew it was because she was prettier. Sasha, with her small chest and habit of wearing headbands, looked younger. The only guys who eyed Sasha at the gas station were the really old ones and they had agreed to draw the line at sixty. Old, old guys were creepy.

That Saturday, Jeanette had tried one guy before Johnson. The guy had been in his thirties maybe, with a crew cut and a tattoo of Florida that said GOD BLESS THE GUN-SHINE STATE in Old English letters below. She was sure he’d buy them a pack. But he’d brushed Jeanette aside with laughter while scanning her body and lifting the gas pump from its holster.

“Sweetie, I’m on parole, and you aren’t worth it,” he’d said.

She was mortified. So she tried extra-hard with the next guy, with Johnson: adjusted her bra so extra cleavage spilled over her orange top, sucked her stomach in, reapplied strawberry Lip Smackers and a light-brown lip liner. She’d dabbed some CK One between her boobs.

Johnson pulled up in a beat-up bloodred Toyota. He looked like a dad, or like one of Sasha’s mother’s boyfriends, in camouflage shorts and a white T-shirt that read TONY’S TACKLE AND BAIT SHOP in faded blue. He had green eyes and acne scars, muscular arms that strained his shirtsleeves. The Toyota had dark-tinted windows.

Jeanette chewed her gum as she walked up to him. She smiled her most pleasant smile, the kind her dad liked. Smile, it’s your best feature, he’d say to her as she left the house for school each morning.

Johnson looked up with his wallet in his hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead. She said hello, and he sized her up, didn’t return her smile.

“I was wondering…” Jeanette chewed her bottom lip and looked toward the shop door. A laminate tacked to the glass read EMPLOYEES DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO SAFE.

“Me and my friend”—she motioned toward Sasha with her chin—“we want to buy cigarettes but we forgot our IDs. If I give you the money, would you buy us a pack of Marlboro menthols? The green pack?” She held out a crumpled twenty, gave her best smile again.

Johnson squinted. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

He frowned and cocked his head, softened into a smile. “What if I don’t want your money? What if I do it as a favor?”