Footing out the kickstand, taking off his helmet, Hunter misses the iron. He hasn’t lifted weights all week. Thinking that maybe after sewing up the details of his father in California, he’ll find a gym. Get the blood flowing. Get a good pump. Stepping from his bike, he takes a long look at the big red Pegasus from the building’s glory days as a Mobil gas station, sometime back in his childhood. A Route 66 sign in the window reminds Hunter of something out of a movie like From Dusk till Dawn or The Getaway. He’s waiting for the sheriff to roll up wearing a Smokey hat and mirrored shades.

They park beside the retro-looking gas pumps—old-school, with the latch on the side, metal housing, real counters, nothing digital. They walk into the store, the door jangling the little bell over their heads.

A sweet rush of cold air hits Hunter and Itch in the face. Counter to the left. Cigarettes lined overhead. Behind the counter, an attendant in his midtwenties sits on a stool holding his phone up in front of him, thoroughly engrossed in thumbing a message to someone somewhere. It seems everyone is connected by a smartphone.

“Busy day?” Hunter asks.

“Huh?” asks the attendant. Wearing a ball cap on backward, hair stringing out from beneath it. He wears a blue T-shirt with “Billabong” across the chest.

Off to the right are rows of chips. Jerky. Potted meat. Nuts and candy bars. Everything is packed in tight. Coolers straight back in the rear, beside the teensy bathroom. Itch hits the head first.

“Customers. You had many today?” Hunter asks, trying to make small talk.

While the attendant works out a response, he walks to the coolers, opens the door, and grabs two bottles of water.

“They come and go. Out here it’s a slow death. Some days, there’s plenty; others, it’s a big minus. Don’t make me no difference—get paid the same regardless of who trespasses.”

“I hear that,” Hunter says, eyeing the lunch meat and cheeses in the cooler.

Behind Hunter, the bell over the door rings. A kid walks in. He seems cautious, even leery, of the scene he’s just entered. Sizing the area up. He has on a faded Soulfly T-shirt. Hole-worn jeans. Black Converse high-tops. He walks the isles in search of something to lift. Hunter recognizes it right away. He glances at Hunter, looking nervous. Approaches him. Nods. Sizing him up, taking in the ink on his arms.

“Cool tats.”

“Thanks.”

At the counter, Hunter is waiting on Itch when the attendant lowers his phone.

“Hey, that shit on the shelves ain’t free. Take it out of your pocket.”

Hunter turns to the kid, who pulls a package of Reese’s Cups and a Twix from his pocket. Hunter feels sorry for him. “Grab what you want, kid,” he says. “I’m buying.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Nothing.”