One of the clerks tried to scan the man’s package of cigars, but her scanner came up empty. “Do you know how much these are?” she asked.

“No, I don’t,” the man replied.

“I’m sorry, I have to get a price check,” the clerk said.

“That’s all right,” the man said.

But he was not all right. His hands were squeezed tightly on the grips of his crutches, his face gray and coarse-looking, his breath audible. When he tried to shift his weight, Molly saw the blood drain from around his mouth. The teenage stock boy who had been sent on the price check could not find the rack where the cigars were.

“Sir, maybe I could help,” Molly said.

“I’m fine here,” the man said.

“I was a nurse in-”

“I’m fine,” he said, not looking at her, his expression empty.

She felt her face tighten with embarrassment. She placed her soda can in a trash barrel and went outside. Albert was loading his new saddle in the camper shell that was inserted in the bed of his paint-skinned pickup. He shut the door on the camper and peeled the wrapper on a Hershey bar. “You drive, will you?” he said.

The morning sun created a glare on the window as she backed out of their parking spot. Simultaneously, the white limo was backing up from the gas pump to make way for a motor home. Molly’s trailer hitch gashed the taillight out of the limo’s fender molding, sprinkling glass and chrome on the concrete.

Lyle Hobbs got out from behind the wheel of the limo to inspect the damage. He chewed his lip, his fists propped on his hips, his dry hair blowing in the wind. He let out his breath and took off his aviator glasses and looked at Molly. “I guess if I was sitting on top of an elephant, you might have seen me,” he said.

“That’s very clever. But people don’t usually back up from gas pumps. That’s why this store has an entrance and an exit. You drive into the entrance. You put the gas in your car and drive out of the exit. That’s usually understood by most literate people. Maybe the problem is with your dirty windows. Can you see adequately out of them?”