The Last Toll on Route 86

I close the register at eleven and count what's left. Two hundred eighteen dollars, most of it in ones and fives. Gas sales, a carton of Marlboros, three energy drinks. The kind of day that doesn't pay the electric bill or the lease or the quarterly tax the county keeps raising because they can. I write the number in the ledger because I still keep one, even though no one checks. Then I lock the drawer and rest my hand on the shotgun beneath the counter.

It's a Remington 870, twelve gauge, older than the station. The previous owner left it mounted on brackets he'd screwed into the particleboard, along with a box of shells that might have been there since the nineties. I've never fired it. I don't know if it fires. I check it the way I check the coffeepot before I leave—routine, not faith.

The fluorescents hum above me, the same pitch they've had for seven years, high and thin like a mosquito you can't swat. Two of the tubes are going dark at the ends. I should replace them. I should replace a lot of things. The moths beat against the windows, soft percussion, their shadows huge on the glass. Outside, Route 86 is empty in both directions. It's been empty since nine.