matchbook

e see the yellow sign in the distance. 9:00 PM. One hour till close, but Cheryl—she works this shift—usually starts drinking around 9:30 and locks the doors by 9:45. We're talking about Bobbie Jo’s cousin's new job.

“Shit drive,” she says. I pass her the joint. “One county over, mind you, but pays better. Safer than strip-mining. No black lung.”

Trevin, her cousin, worked here before Amazon. Last month? Last week? Hard to keep track these days.

Bobbie Jo watches out the window as we pass the church, a dead deer carcass, and that faded brown sign warning of the upcoming landfill—barely readable in the dark. Dollar General is a sharp left that most people miss.

“Bright side is they don’t drug test, so he can ditch the fake piss,” she adds, exhaling. “Trevin's a paranoid motherfucker.”

The parking lot looks bigger than usual. Almost empty. A gunshot cracks off somewhere. Hate hunting season. Out of the car, my steps feel heavy; my feet sticky with something I can’t place.

We walk toward the squat, gray box of a store. The warm-plastic smell hits immediately. The door jingles. Inside, Bobbie Jo runs her fingers along the smooth, synthetic aisles—paper towels stacked haphazardly, cheap toys in discount bins. The smell of rubber and dust is pervasive.

No sign of Cheryl. No gravel-voice calling out weekly specials. A cardboard display wobbles near the entrance: Two for $5! Tastykake!

We grab Funyuns, and Bobbie Jo tosses tampons into the rickety neon cart. The lights flicker—another power surge.

“It’s ridiculous—seven bucks for toxic plastic shit I gotta shove up my vag,” she says, grabbing Oreos too.

“They have organic ones,” I offer.

“Not in Ultra. I bleed, bitch.” She scowls.

Turning the corner, I wonder if the self-checkout is still closed. Some kid jammed cookies into the credit card kiosk last week, or at least that’s what the sign said.

Then we see it. Red pooling on tacky linoleum. Something wet. Movement behind the register. A kid. Huddled and rocking.

Bobbie Jo grabs my arm.

“I didn't mean to,” he says, “I really didn't.”

Pale. Stringy, greasy hair. Bloodshot eyes. He looks like your friend’s dirtbag little brother. Or that kid who skipped class for hours and came back grinning, reckless and untethered.

“I thought the safety was on,” he says, scratching his arms. “I didn't mean to.”

No gun in sight. Sirens in the distance. They made good time—we’re at least twenty minutes out from the state trooper barracks.

“There was only eighty bucks in the fucking drawer,” he sobs. “Eighty bucks. Jesus Christ.”

More sirens. Not close, not yet—but coming.

“What the fuck,” he keeps repeating. “What the fuck, what the fuck.” He finally looks at us.

Bobbie Jo says something back, but I can't make out the words. She’s holding regular Dr. Pepper. Not diet. Her grandma’s diabetes has been acting up. She’ll have to switch it out.

“I really didn’t mean to,” he says again.

I think about Trevin at Amazon, how he left this store. The kid behind the register isn’t Trevin; never will be—no plan, no idea what to do. But it could have been.

Sirens again. Close. I look down at my shoes. Clean still. Bobbie Jo grips the Dr. Pepper. The blood inches toward us, seeping across the linoleum.

The door jingles. Familiar. He hears it. We hear it.

And neither of us does a damn thing.