Cleo woke to the headlights rolling across the doorway as a car pulled off 66. She roused herself, stretched her sore back.

A man climbed out of the car and came toward her, keys jingling. He wore  khaki coveralls and a cap emblazoned with the Texaco star.

“We’re not open yet,” he said cheerfully. “You by yourself?”

She nodded. “Hitching west. Started in Chicago. Oak Park, actually.”

He unlocked the door and held it. “Well, come on in. I gotta make coffee anyway.”

She went in. He followed.

“Gotta admit I’m a little jealous,” he said, locking the door behind him.


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