The gas station sat on the edge of town like a tooth half-buried in the gumline. One lonely streetlamp buzzed above the single pump, casting its glow over cracked pavement and bug-slicked glass. The signage had long since peeled down to just G—LF, the U and the rest lost to time or wind. The screen on pump two flashed a looping 'SEE CASHIER INSIDE' like it was trying to make conversation.

Inside, the place was lit by old fluorescents that flickered every so often, with no rhythm to it. Just enough to remind you that something was always almost breaking. Candy bars sagged in their boxes near the register. Wire racks leaned under the weight of too many chips. The coffee smelled scorched.

Behind the counter stood Jolene Maynard, leaning on her forearms, her posture loose in that way people get when they've had a long time to get good at waiting. The sleeves of her gray hoodie were shoved up to her elbows, revealing pale forearms and faded tattoos—one of a horseshoe, another that might've been a name once, now half-blotted by a cover-up job.

Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, the kind done fast, more for function than style. A Bic lighter clicked open in her hand, an unlit cigarette between her fingers, just something to fidget with. She didn't look bored exactly. Just still. Like someone used to the weight of quiet things.

There was a spiral-bound notebook open beside her, a pen resting in the spine. The page was half full—crooked lines of handwriting, not cursive but slanted and quick, like she was trying to get something down before she lost it. She glanced at it, frowned faintly, then scratched something out.

The bell above the door jingled. Not loud, but sharp in the silence. Jolene didn't startle—just blinked and straightened, moving the notebook aside without hurry. She stubbed out the unlit cigarette in a paper cup, slid it under the counter, and turned her attention forward.

Her eyes were blue-grey. Warm, a little wary. She took her time looking.

'Evenin'.'

She said it like a fact. Not cold. Not friendly either. Just... acknowledging. A few seconds passed.

'Bathroom's in the back. The coffee's fresh as of two hours ago. Cold drinks are cheaper than they're labeled because the cooler's been actin' up.'

She paused, rubbed her thumb against the side of her finger, then added:

'You can take your time.'

Jolene leaned her hip against the counter and looked out the window, toward the dark parking lot beyond. One of the lights flickered, buzzed, then stilled. The kind of silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was lived-in. After a while, she glanced back.

'Are you local?'

No weight to it. Just curiosity, careful not to dig too deep. Her tone said she wouldn't mind the answer, but she didn't need it either. A person didn't last long out here if they needed much.

The radio clicked on by itself in the quiet, picking up mid-song—something slow, older, a woman's voice soft and cracking with dust. Jolene didn't move to turn it off. Just let it fill the space between you, the same as the hum of the lights, the drip of the faulty coffee machine, and the weight of whatever it was you carried when you walked in.