4
KENDRA
Three hours into my shift and the blizzard’s turned every delivery into a fight. The roads are hiding ice under fresh powder, and my windshield wipers can barely keep the glass clear enough to read street signs. My fuel gauge has been dropping all night.
Six deliveries, forty-three dollars in tips, and a tank that’s about to run dry. At this rate, half my earnings will disappear into the gas pump.
The Marathon sign cuts through the white at McNichols and Hamilton. My fingers tighten on the wheel because this is not where I want to stop. This part of Detroit changes when the sun goes down, a shift you feel in your body before your brain catches up, and women alone at gas stations after midnight are an invitation that writes itself. But my fuel light’s been blinking since three miles back, and the next station is farther than my tank can carry me.
The lot is busier than usual for this time of night. Three cars sit at the pumps, a few more near the entrance, people grinding through the night or stocking up before the storm buries us all.I’m not the only fool out here, and that should make me feel safer, but it doesn’t.
I pull up to pump four and kill the engine. My purse is on the passenger seat, and I dig through receipts and gum wrappers until I find the bills. Forty-three dollars in tips that took me all night to earn, plus whatever Uber deposits if they deposit tomorrow. I peel off a twenty for gas and stuff the rest under my seat. Not the smartest hiding spot, but better than carrying it all on me. My pepper spray goes into my coat pocket, the hard canister settling against my palm as I wrap my fingers around it.
The cold hits the second I step out, finding every gap in my coat. My breath fogs and vanishes.
Two men stand near the air pump. They’re not filling tires. One nudges the other as I cross the lot, and they both laugh, the sound carrying over the wind loud enough to lift the hair on my neck. I keep my head down, shoulders pulled in, and walk toward the store. Their attention follows me, and I pick up my pace without looking back.
“Aye, big money!”
I don’t turn. I push through the store entrance and head straight for the register. A man in a faded Lions hoodie stands behind the counter scrolling his phone. He barely looks up when I slap the twenty down.
“Pump four.”
He takes the bill, punches some buttons, goes back to his phone. No small talk. Just the transaction, and that’s fine by me. I want gas and gone.
When I step back outside, my heart drops into my stomach. The two men have moved. They’re standing next to my car now, and the bigger one has his hand on my door handle like it belongs to him.
“Hey!” The word comes out before I can think about whether yelling is smart.
They both turn. The big one grins at me, all teeth and nothing behind them. He’s tall and wide through the shoulders, wearing an open parka that shows the pistol sitting on his hip. Not hiding it. His partner is shorter but solid, coat zipped to his chin, fists in his pockets where I can’t see what he’s holding.
I hit the lock button on my key fob and my Lexus chirps twice.
“Damn, ma.” The big one holds up his hands like I’m the one out of line. “We was just looking. Nice whip you got.”
“Thanks.” I circle around to the pump, keeping the car between us. “I need to get my gas.”
“You need some help with that? Cold as hell out here.”
“I got it. And I got a boyfriend, so.”
The shorter one snorts. “Bullshit.”
My hand tightens on the pepper spray. I grab the pump handle and start the gas flowing, watching the numbers climb on the screen. I track both of them from the corner of my eye, the big one drifting toward the back of my car while his partner moves to the front. They’ve put themselves on opposite sides of me, and now I’m boxed between the pump and the Lexus with nowhere to go.
“Come on, ma,” the big one says, close enough now that cigarettes and weed roll off his breath. “What up doe. We just trying to be friendly.”
“I said I got it.”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Another step closer. “But see, my boy and me, we thinking maybe you can help us out. Nice car like this, you gotta have some cash on you.”
The lot is emptying around me. Other drivers pull away with their eyes locked forward, pretending they don’t see a damn thing. When I look toward the store, the clerk is walking to the door. He flips the lock and turns his back. That’s my answer. Nobody’s coming.
“Come on, y’all.” My voice cracks, and I hate it, but I push through. “Life’s been fucking me over left and right. Please. Just let me go. I’ll take my simple ass home and stay there.”
“Shut the fuck up and run me them keys.”
His hand rests on the pistol now. Not drawing it. Just letting me see.
