Seventeen years later, I was on a business trip nearly 1,300 miles from home. I had driven too long, slept too little, and survived on gas station coffee that tasted like burnt regret. The trip was supposed to be simple: meet a client, sign papers, drive back, and return to my quiet life.
It was late afternoon when I stopped at a small gas station to grab a coffee before getting back on the road.
The place sat off a two-lane highway, with cracked pavement and a faded red sign buzzing above the pumps.
Inside, the air smelled like hot dogs, floor cleaner, and old coffee. A radio played low behind the counter. I picked up a paper cup, filled it from the machine, and tried not to think about how tired I was.
As I walked to the register, I froze.
The young cashier could not have been more than 20. But he looked exactly like I did as a teenager. The same eyes. The same jawline. Even the same crooked smile.
