Another pothole on Forbridge, just off the ramp. Probably a semi, rode up on the shoulder to get around someone turning on to the highway, hit a soft spot. Christ, who owns this road? The state, or county? Not the city, haven’t hit the border yet.
Convenience store on the right. I need anything? Quarter tank, could get gas in the morning. When do prices go up? Just get home. Sign for milk, that’s right, ran out this morning. Dammit, just want to be home. Gotta have milk though.
It’s the fat bald guy working tonight, not the petulant teenaged chick with the cute ass. Waves to me as I walk in. Do I know you? Nod back anyway. Milk’s in the far corner, past the beer. Gotta love the American diet. Jesus, forty cents more for a half gallon than the supermarket? Not worth the gas or time for another stop. Screw it, open the door, get the damn milk, swipe my card at the counter, back in the car.
Might as well get gas too. Every pump’s available. Only one car in the lot, must belong to the fat bald guy. Nobody on the road either. Weird, never this quiet. It is late, and dark, cold. Didn’t even notice the price at the pump, just started fueling. Be done with it, get back on the road, back to Green Valley Lane.
Pull out of the lot. Still nobody on the road. Coming up on the city, still no cars coming the other way. And still — wait, there is a car behind me. And I recognize the shape, it’s the boxy car that followed me off the exit.