The Midnight Exchange

The Night Drive When I Heard My Name on the Dead Radio and Realized They Were Waiting

For Me You know the feeling, that deep, hollow echo in your chest when the clock

shows 3:17 AM and the only things moving are you and the dust motes in the high beam glare.

You've been on the road since seven, pushing the old, rusted 1998 Ford Ranger far past

its comfort zone, just trying to make the state line before dawn. You finally pull

off onto Exit 43, a poorly maintained ramp leading to a desolate gas station, the only structure

for fifty miles. It's called Red Wheel Stop, a pathetic fluorescent island in a sea

of black, sticky asphalt. The attendant's booth is shielded by scratched Lexan,