Growing up in a small town meant a lot of regulars, places, routines, people.

The gas station convenience store was a small microcosm of that greater regular.

6 a.m. build-unner stopped in and his way to the slaughterhouse for cigarettes and a pack

of powdered donuts.

715.

The bus stop kids huddled around the magazine rack, looking for the latest swimsuit edition.

830.

Dr. Mangon pulled up for a coffee to go and a copy of that day's paper.

I was used to all of them, neither names, nor families, where they lived and worked.

They made the morning simple, regular.

Evening shift was a bit less predictable, seeing more folks who were just passing through

with the exception of Earl.

If there was one man routine was made for, it was him.

Earl was a tall fella, easily over six feet, and he had the leathery, tan skin of a laborer

that contrasted with his straw-colored hair and pale eyes.

Despite his size, people took to calling him mouse sometimes, on account of how quiet

he was.

It's up to the occasional grunt.

He didn't speak.

Never had.

He had a way of sneaking up on you, so you didn't know he was there until he tapped

you on his shoulder.

...