Prologue - Pumped Up at the Pump

PROLOGUE - PUMPED UP AT THE PUMP

I PULL INTO the gas station with twelve miles left on the tank and the confidence of a man who’s done this before.

I park at pump 3. The best one. Not too close to the entrance, not too far. Prime zone. I step out, stretch like I’m about to run wind sprints, and swipe my card.

It doesn’t work.

I swipe it again, but faster. Doesn’t work.

Third time, slow and seductive. Bingo.

Gas pumps are weird. It always feels like you’re defusing a bomb while your playlist shuffles between “Eye of the Tiger” and an instrumental lo-fi remix of “Eye of the Tiger.”

I pop the cap and start fueling up. While it pumps, I go inside to get a drink. This is what champions do. Multitask. Hydrate while you caffeinate.

The door jingles. It’s cold inside. Not temperature-wise. Just emotionally.

The guy behind the counter looks like he’s been working here since the invention of corn syrup. He’s reading a fishing magazine. There’s a single banana on the counter. Not for sale. Just there.

I grab a 20-ounce soda and a sleeve of powdered mini donuts. Breakfast of champions. Also lunch. And maybe dinner, if things go sideways.

I set my wallet down on the counter.
I would remember that later. Probably.
Maybe.

“Pump 3,” I say, handing over the snacks.

He doesn’t look up. “You ever notice how nobody really chooses Pump 3?”

I blink. “I chose it.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

I don’t know what that means, but I’m not about to ask. I tap to pay with Apple Pay. Smooth. The future is now.

As I walk out, I notice a bird staring at me from the roof of the station. Just staring. No movement. Just vibes.

I get in the car, snacks in lap, drink in cupholder, and drive toward the mall. The wallet remains on the counter.

Totally normal day.