Weather and time had lifted most of the paint off many of the letters in the sign atop the wooden framed building.

Wyatt thought it a little incongruous to find a gas station out here, before reasoning that the social loners and hermits of the Northeast Kingdom needed a place to get gas, milk and smokes.

A two-pump island stood at the center of the small parking lot. The yard was tidy, bordered by wooden blocks the size of milk crates. Each had been painted a different color—red, yellow, green, white, blue, orange, and violet. Now faded, he imagined the blocks had livened up the place years ago.

Wyatt lined up his Ford at the pumps. A handwritten sign, sleeved in plastic, said PUMP IT YOURSELF. PAY INSIDE.

After filling up, he went inside. Transom bells jingled when he entered. A golden retriever, curled on the floor in front of the counter, lifted its head. It gave Wyatt a pang of homesickness. Missing Molly, he patted the dog, and then heard the whip-snap of a flyswatter from the back.

“Is it just the gas, mister?” A heavyset, older woman tottered to the register behind the counter.

“Well, I was hoping you could help me.”

Wyatt paid cash for his gas. The woman rang it up, gave him his change and a receipt.

“That depends,” she said. “What do you need?”

“Are you Zeffie?”

“Like the sign says. And who might you be?”

“Ray Wyatt. I’m a reporter from New York.”

He set his card on the counter. Zeffie’s tired eyes glanced down at it, unimpressed.

“I’m researching a story on Samantha Moore, the student who’s been missing.”

“Are you, now?”

“I understand she and her boyfriend passed by here; that her boyfriend got gas here.”

Zeffie took in a breath, let it out, turned, pulled the rocking chair behind her closer, and positioned herself in it. The flyswatter rested on her lap like a scepter.

“Such a sad case,” Zeffie said. “I talked to so many reporters about that when it happened. Told police everything I know, too. A million times. Guess talking to you won’t hurt.”

“Can I record our conversation and take notes?”

“Makes no difference to me.”

Wyatt set down his recorder, opened his notebook, and leaned against the counter.

“The boy came here that night banging on the door,” Zeffie said. “I was closed, but I live in the back. Been just me running the place since my Alfred died ten years back. Bad heart. So, the boy’s knocking like his life depended on it. Duke’s barking up a storm. I’m closed, I tell him. But he’s begging and pleading. Finally, I turn on the pumps, and he buys enough gas to fill his can, pays, and leaves.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”