The cashier took it slowly.
The moment he looked at it, his face went completely pale.
His hand trembled around the photo. His eyes snapped from the picture to me, then toward the glass door.
"Hey," I said carefully. "It's okay. I'm not trying to scare you."
He did not answer.
"What's your name?" I asked again.
Without saying a single word, he jumped over the counter and sprinted out of the gas station.
For half a second, I just stood there, my coffee cooling in my hand and my old photograph lying on the floor between us.
Then something in me broke loose.
I ran after him, having absolutely no idea that the next few hours were about to change everything I thought I knew about my life.
I shoved through the glass door so hard the bell above it shrieked.
The young cashier was already halfway across the lot, cutting between two parked trucks like someone who had spent his whole life knowing where the exits were. I chased him past the pumps, my dress shoes slipping near the curb.
