The gas station clerk was younger than he should’ve been, probably working a double for the third day straight. The kind of kid with dark rings under his eyes and a pack of off-brand smokes in his hoodie pocket.
Frank tossed a six-pack on the counter, already feeling the weight of the night settle into his bones.
"That'll be twelve bucks," the kid muttered.
Frank counted the crumpled bills in his fist. Ten. Fifty cents in loose change.
"Shit," Frank said.
The kid exhaled through his nose, the universal sound of defeat.
Frank shrugged. "Guess I’m two bucks short."
The kid slid the beer across the counter anyway. "Just take it, man."
"Why?"
"'Cause it ain't my beer, and I don’t give a damn."
Frank grinned. "You might turn out alright, kid."
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