“Its sign is on. That’s promising,” said Linda.
She peered beyond the wipers at the station, which was nestled back amongst the trees—like a hunting blind. “If there’s power going to the pumps, that is. And if there’s anything left to pump.”
I geared down and pulled into the illuminated lot, up to one of the covered pump islands, the Mopar grumbling, the hood scoop’s “hemicuda” indicia glinting. “What I can’t figure is how there’s any power at all—this far out from the Flashback. What’s it been, a month?”
“Three weeks, 52 hours, and 49 seconds,” said Fred, from behind. “Give or take. That’s three, no, four episodes of Rick and Morty, just gone with the wind. And my bagel; I haven’t had a bagel at Paramo for 5 weeks. I miss San Francisco. What’s Seattle got? Starbucks. The Seahawks. Jeff
