And still…I’m going.
Because no matter how far he runs, I refuse to let him hide forever.
The welcome bell chimes, sounding brighter somehow. An older man hangs behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, glancing up with a nod in my direction.
“Filling up?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “Just looking around.”
“Take your time.”
Stocked shelves glimmer with overpriced snacks, packs of gum, and rows of energy drinks promising a jolt of life I can’t remember. The air smells like stale coffee and motor oil, a combination that’s almost soothing in its simplicity.
I peer over at the man as I scour the aisle that’s brimming with colorful candy and chips.
I recognize him.
The man who shot Chase.
He was all over the news. Twice. Once for the attack, and again when the gas station was ransacked by furious fans once they learned about Chase’s history with this place.
I remember the press conference from two years ago.
The store clerk in front of a wall of cameras, choking on his apology. Said he panicked. Said he’d been robbed multiple times in the same month. Said he thought Chase was reaching for something more than a can of dog food in his hoodie pocket.
He wept in front of reporters, talking about his daughter, about how she was in medical school and how he was working double shifts to help with the loans.
Said he couldn’t afford to lose the station. Couldn’t afford to lose everything.
Chase never pressed charges.
And while the D.A. tried to build a case anyway—reckless endangerment, excessive force—with no victim testimony and a city quick to rally behind its own, it didn’t stick.
The man kept his job. Took a leave. Came back quieter and older.
Now he’s behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towel, his soft eyes smiling at me as I grab a bag of trail mix, a bottle of water, and begin to check out.
“Will this be all today?” He rings up my items, reaching for a plastic bag.
“Yes. Thank you.”
A woman strolls in from the back room.
Black hair, warm skin, sleek heels thatclickety-clackagainst the linoleum. She moves like someone who doesn’t belong behind a counter. Just a visitor.
His daughter.
She eyes me briefly, offering a smile, then starts restocking a tray of scratch-offs.
Nodding my thanks, I take my receipt and head toward the exit.
I make it halfway before I pause, something gripping me.
A pull.
A memory.
A need.
