Jamey turned toward the gas station. “I’m gonna try something,” she said, more to herself than to me. She walked to the door of the store, pulled something from her pocket—her knife, that she had taken back from me—and knelt in front of the lock. In less than a minute, the time it took me to walk over there, she had sprung it open. She pushed through the door to the sound of jingling bells.

“Jamey.” I caught the door, stopping the bells. I glanced up reflexively, looking for cameras.

“Relax. The power’s off. Nobody’s here. I’m just gonna see if I can get the pumps going again.”

I followed her in. A blast of cold air hit me, as cold as the air outside, but stale, like an old freezer. “Jamey, that’s stealing.”

“You have cash, right?”

I didn’t answer. What had she noticed?

“Just leave a wad on the counter for when somebody comes back. If anybody ever comes back. I sure wouldn’t come back here.” She swung her legs over the counter and started fiddling with something behind the register.

“The power’s off,” I said. “The pumps won’t work.”

“Hang on.” Her hands worked at something hidden from view. She gave a tug. I heard a whir, like an engine cranking, then she stood. “Transfer switch. Should be a generator. The pumps should work now.” When I looked at her in surprise, she said, “I used to work at a gas station. Before Skate State.”

I glanced outside through the grimy door. Dance had returned to the truck. He looked at the pump, looked back at me. I nodded, and he lifted the pump handle. It must have worked; he turned to the truck with the nozzle.

I tried to picture Jamey before Skate State. I doubted it was legal for her to work much, but legal was a flexible term in the foothills. Jamey in a cashier vest, snapping gum. Reading magazines from the rack, bored on her break. It was both easy and impossible to imagine.

She was scanning the wall of cigarettes behind the counter. “How much cash do you have?” she asked.

“You can’t smoke in the truck.”

She pulled a carton from the wall. “I’ll smoke it here, then.”

We sat out on the curb in front of the store. Jamey smoked and I watched Dance pump gas. After the truck was all fueled, he filled our collection of gas cans. On the ridge above us, we could hear whoops and laughter, a go-cart teetering back and forth, as Grayson pushed Starla around.

“That foot ain’t never gonna heal,” Jamey said. She blew out a line of smoke.

“How did you end up at Skate State?” I asked her.