She’d slap the cashier if he said “Nope” too. But first, he asked, “Beer time already, Ang?” The Exxon’s doors had barely closed. Ang didn’t need beer. Her glove compartment had half a gallon of vodka. The other half had her sweating and slurring, and mostly, it had her jonesing for a Doral Menthol Light. The first time she’d smoked one was the last time she’d smoked. A year ago, her grandma offered it because there weren’t gas stations near the viewing. Her grandma lived on Dorals. Her granddaddy died by Camels. Ang hated that, hated hypocrites too. Now she wanted to be one. So far, she was only being a liar: after his “Don’t have those,” she didn’t slap this cashier either. And Ang had gotten her Zoloft yesterday. Her sister wasn’t stupid. She knew Ang was with a bottle, looking for a parking lot, gravel preferably—Warfield Methodist Church might do—so she could stare past the trees, past the fields, maybe train tracks too, looking for something she’d never find. And her sister knew if Ang kept going, she’d get arrested or a coffin. “Both feel better than this,” Ang told the next cashier. It was the last gas station around, had taken her thirty minutes down a lightless, nameless road. Her grandma lived on land behind it. Instead of threats, Ang gave humor a try. Maybe God would see, be pleased, and bless. “So how much bereavement time y’all get?” She laughed. The cashier did not. Neither did God. She stumbled back to her car, sat down, and glimpsed a late-night deer crunch across pebbles. Ang’s shirt was drenched by the time her phone rang. She wiped her face, squeaked a little, sniffled as she answered. Her sister said, “Ang.” She said, “Grandma just died. You said you’d be here. Everybody else was.” Ang’s face crumpled. Winter trees are quiet. “You do this every time.” Ang struggled to say, “I know,” her voice chunky like deer hooves on gravel.