Van Halen blared from a silver boombox a few feet above the head of the teenaged male cashier as Silas paid for his final tank of gas before returning to Ft. Myers. He bobbed his head to the song. The cashier spoke through a quaint smile.
“I like their first album, the best.”
Silas’ eyes left the music and focused on the teeth missing from the cashier’s mouth, on each side. He took his change of six dollars and thirty-seven cents and responded.
“Yeah, I agree, but you can’t blame the band for wanting to make money. This song is everywhere.”
He shocked himself with his statement. He’d never thought about money. Olive had begged him to clean out his safe deposit box on their way out of Atlanta a day earlier. There was over four hundred dollars in gifted cash from family members in it but he’d…
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