The Pump Confession
4 min read · Anonymous · Premium
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The Nevada sun was a hammer against the windshield, relentless even through my sunglasses. We had been driving for four hours, headed to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving. I was tired, my lower back aching from the cheap rental car seat. Jake had insisted on driving, which I appreciated, even if he kept the radio on a classic rock station that gave me a headache.
He pulled into a gas station off Route 95, a lonely outpost of concrete and flickering neon. “Need anything?” he asked, already unbuckling. “Chips? Soda?”
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