He didn’t understand, because it had been full when he’d stored the car. And it had been tuned and was running fine when he’d bought it online months ago. After he’d provided detailed coordinates, he’d insisted the seller in Boston haul it on a trailer under a tarp and deliver it to the property at night. And since receiving it, he’d run the motor periodically with no problems.

The tank must’ve developed a hairline crack, or a seam had rusted.

He had smelled gas when he uncovered the car, but thought it was due to storage. He hadn’t checked the fuel gauge.

A foolish error.

Going downhill changed the angle affecting displacement of the gas remaining in the tank. He’d have to patch it with a fuel tank repair kit. He’d buy one in Montpelier or Burlington, once he got that far. Right now, he needed to fill the tank as soon as possible.

He’d stop at the local gas station. It wasn’t much farther.

Moaning came from the back.

The issue of storing his acquisition for travel had to be addressed now.

Byyle stopped, got out. He opened the trunk, moved around his aluminum suitcases. He went to the back seat, reached for his stun gun, and shocked Samantha Moore again. He waited for her shaking to stop before binding her mouth, her wrists, and ankles with duct tape.

Grunting, he hefted her into the trunk.

She pleaded into her binding before he closed it and continued driving.

***

Almost there, Byyle thought.

To conserve gas, he used a combination of shifting to Neutral, taking his foot off the accelerator while rolling downhill to a near stop, and then shifting to Drive and proceeding slowly.

Soon, the timeworn wooden building came into view, along with the faded sign crowning it: Zeffie’s Gas & Grocery.

He rolled into the yard, outlined with colorful wooden blocks.

A pitiful attempt to be imaginative, he thought. He stopped at the two-pump island with its hand-scrawled sign protected by plastic: PUMP IT YOURSELF. PAY INSIDE.

So quaint.

Byyle turned off the engine and embraced the positive aspects of his situation. He’d recovered his prize, and this place was ideal to prepare for the longer drive because it had no traffic.

He removed his glasses and replaced them with oversized sunglasses that covered much of his face. Then he fished out cash from the bag in the console.

After squeezing all he could into the car’s tank, he wanted to buy a fuel can, as a precaution, and fill it as well.

Walking to the entrance, he recalled news stories about his acquisition that he’d used—generically, of course—in the background he’d submitted to the auction. How it all had begun with Samantha Moore and her boyfriend running out of gas near this very spot.

The irony of us both running out of gas is delightful.