Thirty-five years ago, she had worked here.
Before prison.
Before the trial.
Before the newspapers.
Before her name became something people spat instead of spoke.
She remembered answering that phone every morning at 6 a.m., pouring cheap coffee for truckers, wiping the same counter she now leaned against.
She had been Margaret Ellis, the gas station lady.
Now she was Inmate #447921—recently released, quietly discarded.
She slid down to the floor behind the counter, her back against the cabinet. The cold concrete seeped through her coat, but she didn’t move.
“I’ll rest,” she whispered to no one.
Just for a moment.
She didn’t know how long she sat there.
Minutes? Hours?
The sun climbed higher, slipping through cracks in the boarded-up windows, painting thin lines of light across the floor.
Then—
RING.
The sound slammed into her chest.
Margaret gasped and scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. The phone rang again, sharp and unmistakable.
RING.
“That’s impossible,” she murmured.
The line had been dead for decades. The power was cut. The building abandoned.
And yet—
RING.
Her hand shook as she lifted the receiver.
“H-Hello?” she said.
Static crackled. Then a man’s voice, hesitant and strained.
“Uh… is this Henderson Fuel?”
Margaret swallowed hard. “It used to be.”
A pause.
“Oh,” the man said softly. “I’m sorry. I—I must have the wrong number.”
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