There was an old beat up Dodge Ram parked on that island of fluorescent light. The gas station was a tiny speck of illumination in the dark mountain woods like a star in the endless stretches of space. The pump handle was still on the rack, leaves were rustling around the lot, and the white lights flickered as I pulled to a stop. In hindsight, this was probably some warning that I didn’t acknowledge.

Inside the store, an overweight clerk with a NASCAR shirt was stooped over a pile of smashed beer bottles. An elderly man was stooped with her, apologetically helping her clean up the pile of ruined drink.

My eyes picked up a bit of movement and I saw her. She had her bright red hair pulled back, a Metallica t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest and a wicked grin on her face. She winked at me as she finished cleaning out the open register. The oblivious clerk and old man continued.

The girl handed me a wad of the cash in her exit, a sizable sum of Grants and Benjamins, and I froze with moral dilemma.