The entire back wall was beer, waving at him like a teenager seeing her boyfriend for the first time since he left for college, his texts and calls dwindling by the day. I’ve been waiting for you! the Corona panted in the cooler. William snatched up a twelve-pack of Dr Pepper instead, practically hearing the coolers whine in outrage.

The pleasant door chime announced the arrival of three people, all heading directly for the counter.

Are you kidding me?

An older man pointed outside and proclaimed loudly, “Pump one!”

“We only take cash, machine’s down,” the girl responded.

Holding out a credit card, the man tilted his right ear towards her. “You said what, hon?”

“We. Only. Take. Cash.”

“Still don’t understand you,” he said, touching his hearing aid.

“You don’t take credit cards?” the woman next in line demanded.

“Only cash.”

“Don’t nobody carry cash anymore.” The woman jutted out her hip.

“What did you say?” the old man practically leaned across the counter.

Scratching underneath his hat, William scanned the room. The aisles faced the front, allowing whomever was working to keep an eye out for shoplifters. Only one row was positioned horizontally to the checkout counter.

He slid over to the aisle and peered over the top. The old man was slowly pulling out his wallet. He could hear the woman on her phone, calling her sister to bring some cash. The last man in line was intently reading whatever was on his phone.

One side of the aisle was peanut butter and chocolate bars masquerading as protein bars, and the other was lined with magazines. William set down the Dr Pepper and reached for one of the magazines. A headline in red letters on a black cover stood out among the rest, just as its designers intended it to do, knowing their magazine would be surrounded by an actress’s seventeenth pregnancy announcement; an exclusive on the luxury fallout shelter hidden in the Hollywood Hills for a family of reality stars; and a lifestyle guru, whose name William couldn’t remember, leaning forward thoughtfully, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, encouraging meditation.

“YEAR OF TURMOIL,” Time magazine proclaimed. The cover was split into four sections, displaying flooded streets of New Orleans, miles of burned trees in California, a hospital somewhere surrounded by hordes of people trying to rush in, and smoke from gunfire before the Supreme Court.

In the center of the photos were words in stark white:

RELENTLESS STORMS.

FIRES.

INCURABLE DISEASES.

BLOODSHED.

HOW THE NATION IS FALLING APART.

William put the magazine back. He watched the news nightly and listened to NPR almost constantly during work, so he didn’t need a recap of the disasters. Was it any wonder he had nightmares every night? That he carried around the constant fear like a lead blanket?

Hey, chill out, chili dog. Don’t get your panties in a wad.