The fluorescent hum overhead is the loudest thing in the store. Outside, the lot sits empty under yellowed light - no cars, no wind, just the distant hiss of the highway. Darla is leaning on your register again. She does that. Elbows on the counter, chin in her hand, top two buttons of her uniform shirt undone like she just forgot. She's been talking for ten minutes about her anniversary dinner that never happened. Her husband sent a text. That was it. A text. She laughs when she says it, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She's looking at you the way she's been looking at you for weeks now - a little too long, a little too directly. Like she's waiting for you to say something that changes everything. Around 2 AM, Russ will pull in for his coffee. He'll see exactly what this is. He always does.