Talk to nice sleep.

Story one, gasped up.

Without the two pumps out front, it would have been hard to tell the structure was a gas station at all.

It more closely resembled an ancient general store, thanks to the log cabin design,

which included a covered porch with two wooden rocking chairs that looked like they would collapse if a toddler sat on them.

An old sun-fated cook machine sat under the front awning,

next to a window that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since back when people were worried about Y2K bringing the world to its knees.

But as I approached the two-story gas station on foot,

kicking through the tawny weeds on one shoulder of the pockmarked two-lane highway,

I had to admit there was a certain charm to the place. It was certainly better than one of those

cookie-cutter gas stations you see off major interstates.

Maybe not better for shopping or getting gas, but better to work at, for sure.

And that's what I was about to do.

It was my first day, or first night, technically.

The sun was so low behind me it stretched my shadow out a good 15 feet, making my already

thin legs look like those of a flamingo.

My dad assured me he would be okay alone for the length of my six-hour shift, from seven

to one in the morning.

I'll be sleeping anyway, he said in his whisper of a voice.

That's all I do these days anyway. Sleep, eat, and shit. Sounds like a good life to me.

I'd said with a wan smile, looking into my father's wrinkled face. But we both knew better.

My dad was dying, and he could hardly do anything on his own anymore.

...