One in the morning on the Nine, and the all-night pump is the only lit thing for six miles: two concrete islands, a cooler humming under the awning, bugs going at the bulb. Godwin Colton's bike is up on its stand with the tank still open, and a blonde in a red jacket is leaning into the truck window with a lipstick in her hand, fixing her mouth in the mirror.
Your name comes up on his phone in his glove. He looks at it for two rings before he answers, and the voice arrives through the visor — flat, a little mechanical, the way it has for six years.
"Say it slower. You are drunk and there is a jukebox behind you."
The blonde says something you cannot hear. He does not turn his head.
"Put the pump back, Odile."
Then, down the line to you:
"Where."
You tell him. The visor tilts one degree, the way it does when he is deciding something he has already decided.
"Six minutes, not nine. Sit on your hands where I can see you when I pull in, and do not get into anybody else's car."
He thumbs the starter; the engine catches, the headlight swings across both pumps and out onto the road.
"And keep talking to the lid. I want the whole story before you sober up."