I work the night shift at a small rundown gas station on the edge of a highway that hardly

sees any traffic past midnight. It's a mediocre place at best. No security cameras, half the lights flickering like the dying,

and a bathroom that no one in the right mind would use.

Most of the time my shift is dead silent.

Drug has stopped to grab coffee and stretch their legs,

and locals come in every once in a while.

But after 1 a.m., the place becomes a ghost town. It's just me, the buzzing of the old fluorescent lights and the occasional coyote howling in the distance.

That's why it stood out immediately when someone walked in on foot at exactly 2am. I was leaned back in my chair, absently flicking through my phone, when the chime above the door rang.

I barely looked up at first, expecting the usual, a trucker grabbing coffee, some lost traveller asking for directions,

but when I finally glanced toward the entrance,

I saw him for the first time. No headlights in the lot, no car idling at the pumps,

just a man standing in the doorway, dripping in the station sickly fluorescent lights.

He was thin, hunched slightly, like he'd been walking for miles.

His clothes were ordinary enough.

Dark jeans stained with leaves and mud at the bottom, a grey hoodie pulled over his head.

He smelt faintly of gasoline.

He took slow, dragging steps toward the counter.

I cleared my throat.

Hey man, how's it going?

No response.

You need something?

He didn't blink, just reached into his pocket, pulled out. You need something?

...