He Pays With Time

At 03:17 every night, Pump 4 authorises itself. No car. No footsteps.

No door chime. Just the little bell on the counter ringing once, even though I keep

it locked in the till drawer. The CCTV shows an empty shop. But the audio captures

breathing. Slow. Close. Patient. Then the receipt

printer feeds paper by itself. One item prints on the slip: SALT LOAF

Under it: DO NOT LET HIM PAY The intercom crackles. A woman whispers, “He pays with time.”

And my own voice speaks from the staff door, tired and pleading: “Let me out.

I’ve done my shift.” The till flashes: CLOCK OUT — CONFIRM That’s when I understood what “payment” meant.