Chapter 8 - The Morning on Route 38
At eight o'clock the following morning, the freezing sleet had cleared from northern Illinois, replaced by a brilliant, blinding winter sun that made the snow-dusted cornfields sparkle like fields of crushed diamonds.
Outside the Cross Creek Fuel & Auto station, the atmosphere was completely unrecognizable.
Frank Gellar was gone. His rusted pickup truck had been removed from the gravel lot at dawn; the handwritten signs advertising lottery tickets and cheap tobacco had been stripped from the windows; and a professional commercial cleaning crew was currently pressure-washing the diesel lanes with high-temperature steam.
Posted squarely at eye level on the main glass entrance door was an official, three-page legal document bearing the gold corporate crest of the Vance-Miller Community Foundation:
NOTICE: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. ALL FORMER HOURLY PERSONNEL RETAINED AT TWENTY-FOUR DOLLARS AN HOUR. FUEL DISCOUNTS EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY FOR RURAL MEDICAL TRANSIT.
Inside the newly organized service office, the smell of stale tobacco was gone, replaced by the clean, rich aroma of fresh-brewed Colombian coffee and warm cinnamon rolls delivered from an artisan bakery in Geneva.
Behind the counter stood eighteen-year-old Marcus Torres, Jake’s former coworker on the night shift, wearing a brand-new, thick navy winter parka with the foundation's embroidered emblem on the breast. His face was radiant, his hands steady as he processed a customer’s fuel receipt.
The brass bell above the door chimed.
A local farmer wearing mud-caked overalls and a frayed wool cap stepped inside, holding a twenty-dollar bill. "Morning, Marcus. Word on the CB radio is the diesel prices dropped forty cents a gallon this morning. That true, or is the pump meter broken?"
Marcus grinned, sliding a receipt across the counter. "It's true, Mr. Henderson. Pump Four is running on foundation rates now. And there's free hot coffee by the window for anyone heading east on 38."
The farmer blinked, looking out through the clean glass toward the pump island, where a brand-new electronic air and water station had been installed for public use, free of charge. "Well, I'll be damned. Who bought the place? Some corporate outfit from New York?"
Marcus pointed toward a small, hand-framed brass plaque mounted beside the register:
May you like
CROSS CREEK SERVICE STATION FOUNDED ON INTEGRITY – DEDICATED TO JAKE MILLER “NO TRAVELER LEAVES IN THE COLD.”
"Not from New York, Mr. Henderson," Marcus smiled proudly. "Just a boy from DeKalb who remembered what it felt like to be empty."
