Years earlier, Rock had worked for a day at this fantastically complex gas station on Dickson Street in Fayetteville. It also served as an automobile repair center and had a large kitchen in which rows of women prepared sandwiches they packaged in plastic and cellophane containers for resale in minimarts across the country.
He remembered that in his one previous day there, he never learned enough about the facility to so much as find his way in and out of its maze of rooms, each littered with stacks of oil-stained automotive refuge.
"Try to figure your way around here, Rock," said one of the men he remembered from his last experience there. "We're really going to need your help today."
Rock knew he had no chance, and that knowledge left him panicked. This job was important to him, but for the time being, all he wanted was to find a route out to Dickson that didn't cross paths with the man who had just spoken to him.
No comments:
Post a Comment