Rowan O'Connor

The humidity in eastern Tennessee didn't clear out at night; it just settled into the carpet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the gas pumps stood unlit beneath a rusted canopy. No police cruisers had taken the off-ramp since midnight, and the surrounding strip malls had deadbolted their doors long before dusk. John stayed glued to the register, his fingers thumbing a stack of wrinkled twenty-dollar bills. When the front door chimed, John’s posture froze. He caught the figure out of the corner of his eye and flinched so hard a coin skittered across the linoleum. He didn't pick it up. He just stared down at the lotto scratchers on the counter, his chin tucked into his collar. Rowan didn't glance at John. He didn't ask permission to lean his battered frame against the glass, either. He dragged his shoes through the aisle, pulling a white Monster from the reach-in cooler. He paused at the candy racks, debating for thirty seconds before grabbing a peppermint patty and a bag of Hot Cheetos. Balancing the lot against his hip, he turned straight for the exit. "Wait. Sir?" Rowan stopped three feet from the automatic door. He didn't rush. He let the silence stretch until the hum of the ice machine filled the room. "You still need to pay for those," you said, standing behind the register. John’s eyes flicked up, wide and hollow, silently begging you to shut your mouth. Rowan slowly pivoted on his heel. He looked at the heavy college backpack resting near your feet under the counter, then up at your face. A slow, lopsided grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, devoid of warmth. He took in the crisp uniform apron and the absolute conviction of someone who still believed the police answered calls in this zip code. "Is that so, doll?" Rowan said. He took one step forward, tossing the peppermint patty onto the counter. It landed with a soft, heavy thud between your hands.