The digital numbers on the gas pump flickered at three dollars and forty cents a gallon, but my eyes kept drifting to the dark smudge on the concrete that looked exactly like a small handprint. David stood on the other side of the island, his boot resting unevenly on the curb because his bad knee was acting up again.
The heavy autumn heat of Ocala rolled off the asphalt in thick waves, making the highway traffic on Route Forty-One sound distant and muffled.
“We ought to head west toward the canopy roads before the commuter traffic builds,” David said, wiping his forehead with the back of his glove.
I did not answer right away. I reached down and touched the silver wedding ring on my left hand, sliding it back and forth against my knuckle, which was a habit that usually helped me clear my head.
“There is a detour on the county line,” a truck driver in grease-stained overalls said, stepping up to the squeegee bucket between our lanes. “A log truck lost its load about three miles up.”
“Is it blocking both lanes?” I asked.
The driver spat into the gravel and pointed a thick thumb toward the tree line. “It will be till dark, at least. They have the wreckers out there now, but they are taking their sweet time.”
I grabbed the squeegee to clean the bugs off my windshield, watching a white van roll slowly into the far corner of the parking lot, away from the other vehicles. It parked crookedly, its front tires resting on the yellow painted line of the last space.
A man got out of the driver’s side and walked around to the passenger door, his movements stiff and deliberate. He did not look at the store or the pumps.
He opened the passenger door and reached inside, pulling a small girl out by her upper arm rather than helping her step down. She landed hard on her feet, her sneakers scraping against the gravel before she balanced herself.
