Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch

Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch
on, and i can get fifty miles on reserve. This is a honda, you
know.”
“but why push our luck? and i’m really thirsty,
Donaldson.”
“here.” he lifted his big Gulp. “it’s still half full.”
“no offense, but i don’t drink after strangers, and i um…
this is embarrassing…i have a cold sore in my mouth.”
The gas station was coming up fast, and by all accounts
it appeared to be the last stop before the county road started
its climb into the mountains, into darkness.
“Who am i to say no to a lady?” Donaldson said.
he tapped the brakes and coasted into the station. it had
probably been there for forty years, and hadn’t updated since
then. Donaldson sidled up to an old-school pump—one with
a meter where the numbers actually scrolled up, built way
back when closed-circuit cameras were something out of a
science fiction magazine.
Donaldson peered over lucy, into the small store. a
bored female clerk sat behind the counter, apparently asleep.
White trash punching the minimum wage clock, not one to
pay much attention.
“The tank’s on your side,” Donaldson said. “i don’t think
these old ones take credit cards.”
“i can pay cash inside. i buy, you fly.”
Donaldson nodded. “okay. i’m fine with doin’ the
pumpin’. Twenty, you said?”
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