––––––––
It was a gray day, a soggy day, a day to stay in if you had some place to be—which we did not—and to make sure you had enough gas, which we didn’t (I read a quarter tank on the Cuda’s instrument panel); not that it would matter if the Chevron station ahead of us checked out.
“Its sign is on. That’s promising,” said Linda.
She peered beyond the wipers at the station, which was nestled back amongst the trees—like a hunting blind. “If there’s power going to the pumps, that is. And if there’s anything left to pump.”
I geared down and pulled into the illuminated lot, up to one of the covered pump islands, the Mopar grumbling, the hood scoop’s “hemicuda” indicia glinting. “What I can’t figure is how there’s any power at all—this far out from the Flashback. What’s it been, a month?”
