“How is it complicated?” he presses. He counts to three with his fingers. “Work. Eat. Sleep. The poor have time for little else. There is a kind of peacefulness in that simplicity. A peacefulness that the wealthy will never know. Why? Because of the drama, Miss Vega. Higher taxes. More ex-wives. A cornucopia of lawsuits. Lengthy, tortuous family vacations with stepfamilies of stepfamilies. Slavery to hideous fashion trends—”

The list continues to escalate in ridiculousness. Not to mention, I doubt Mr. Shackleford has ever found himself the victim of a fashion trend. In fact, it doesn’t look like he’s even acknowledged fashion since somewhere in the vicinity of 1972—and the extent of that acknowledgment appears to cover what was hot among rednecks back in the era of starched flannel.

“Surely this exhaustive list of rich-people issues has a point,” I cut him off, unimpressed.

He grins. “I haven’t heard your counterargument, Miss Vega.” He pulls the package from his armpit and slides the paper bag off the bottle. Fixing his eyes on the cap, he slowly unscrews it. “I require of you a list to match my own. Prove that a poor person’s life is so terrible.” He takes a swig and waits for my answer.

And suddenly I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

I know Mr. Shackleford is wealthy. Everyone does. And he knows that I’m not working the graveyard shift at a gas station because my family uses hundred dollar bills for toilet paper. This conversation has become personal. Hasn’t it? I mean, his list is full of things that everyone already knows about the lives of the rich and famous. All the drama they create. It’s public knowledge.

But the poor people list? That’s a different story. The media rarely covers the glamorous life of poverty. It’s this hidden gem of truth that only the impoverished get to polish. For the list to be genuine, it can only be created from firsthand experience.

So Mr. Shackleford isn’t asking what I know about poor people. He’s asking me about me. He’s asking how bad my circumstances are. Mine, personally. At least that’s what it feels like. And I don’t like it. Before, it felt as though we were equals in these conversations. I doubt it will ever feel that way again. Have they been personal all along? Have they all been an attempt to … what, exactly? Get me to admit I’m poor?

Or am I being weird?

I just hope he doesn’t want to make me his charity case or something. I could never take anything from him. How do you explain to someone that you were born with the need for self-sufficiency? And anyway, Mr. Shackleford should recognize this.

Just ask him if he wants help getting to his truck. Nooooooope.

“I have to get back to work,” I say.

A glint of disappointment passes through his eyes, a reaction slowed by the liquor swimming in him. I’ve never spurned the Question of the Night before.

“Of course.” With shaky hands, he finagles the cap back on the bottle and lowers it into the now-crinkled brown bag. “Some other time then.”

No other time, I want to say. Anything theoretical, but nothing personal. Instead I take the bag and twist the top of it for him, as if doing so will keep the bottle from falling out or something.

“Thanks.” He taps his fingers sloppily on the counter. I think he’s going to say something else, and I’m gearing up to cut him off, but after a few seconds he says, “You have yourself a good night, Miss Vega.”

“You too, Mr. Shackleford.”

The jingle bells at the front door knock against each other violently when he leaves. I watch as he one-handedly fumbles in his pocket for his truck keys. I vacillate between going outside to help him or picking up where I left off with my calculus. Going outside might mean getting him out of here quicker, or it might mean another attempt at conversation suddenly gone awkward.

Calculus wins.

After about two minutes of not hearing the engine to Mr. Shackleford’s truck roar to life, I glance up. And I wish I hadn’t. But some things can’t be unseen.

I swallow my heart as I take in the sight of Mr. Shackleford pressed against the side of his truck. His hands are in the air, shaking almost as badly as his knees, which lean in against each other in a need-a-restroom sort of way. The man pointing a rifle in his face is tall—or maybe the cowboy hat he’s wearing is meant to make him appear that way. He’s wearing an old blue T-shirt like a bandana around his face, nose to neck. I can’t even see the guy’s ears. Whatever he’s saying to Mr. Shackelford, he must be whispering; I haven’t heard a word of exchange yet. All I can see is the bandana moving—and Mr. Shackleford’s corresponding responses—to the synchronization of a very serious conversation. And Mr. Shackleford’s mouth quivers as he talks.

He could have a heart attack right here in front of the store.

On my shift.

The good news is, I’m short. I could easily reach the store shotgun just by lowering my arms behind the counter.

The bad news is, I don’t know how to shoot a gun, and the chances of me taking aim before getting myself shot first are slim to none. Plus, I’ve never been robbed before.

Not that I’m being robbed just yet. In fact, the robber doesn’t seem to be interested in me at all. I either pose no threat or he knows that Mr. Shackleford’s wallet holds more money than my register does. I decide that this guy is either the world’s stupidest criminal for turning his back on me, or I’m the world’s dumbest clerk for not running out the back door and calling the cops. It’s just that taking the time to run, to call the cops—that’s time better spent on helping Mr. Shackelford now. Oh God.