Stuttgart is north. So is Smackover. Locust Bayou is over there. Camden’s not far, the fellow at the gas station said. There’s nothing in these towns. A diner, couple of churches, Tastee Freeze. What’re you looking for? He noticed the Ohio plates on the station wagon.

We’re just driving, the man told him. Checking out parts of the country we’ve never been to, his young daughter was getting fidgety in back. We were in Tennessee before this. Heading to El Dorado, he said, the wife checked her lipstick in the mirror.

You gotta head west, said the man as he pumped premium into their tank. Yeah. I been there a time or two. You should check out Texarkana while you’re at it.

Maybe we’ll do that, the husband said. Maybe. The daughter was getting restless.

Honey, why don’t you say hello to the nice man, the wife said. The daughter rolled down her window a bit. Go-on. Don’t be shy, dad turned, and looked at her in the backseat with a pink blanket covering her legs.

Hi, the attendant said. I’m Rusty. Everybody calls me Rusty. Always has. Pleased to make your acquaintance, she rolled down the window a bit more. About eye level. Then, all the way down.

Hello Rusty, she said as she pulled a gun out from under the blanket and shot him. Bye-bye Rusty.