ADVERTISEMENT
My name is Ross. I’m forty-nine, working the night shift at a gas station off Highway 52 after losing my factory job of twenty-three years. The work is quiet, repetitive, and gives you time to notice people as they pass through. One night, a woman came in carrying a sleeping child. She moved carefully, not wanting to wake him, and gathered a few essentials—milk, bread, diapers. When the total came up, she realized she was short by a few dollars. She paused, then said she would put the diapers back.
