It’s hard to go slow when you’re waiting. For people. For answers. For the questions. To go home

“Can we stop at the farmer’s market?” my sister asked me.

We were in line at a gas station coffee counter, somewhere off the 87, waiting to pay for the Coke and chips.

“I’d really rather not,” I told her. The roads were stormy that weekend and our usual three-hour drive upstate was taking much longer. “We already did four hours of driving, this line isn’t moving, and then we have at least another two hours until we get home.”

The man standing in front of us turned around. His arms were covered in tattoos, his ears in piercings. I expected his voice to be rough, but it was clear and strong. “Is that all you have?” he asked, pointing to the snacks we were holding. Yes, we told him. “Then go get back on the road,” he said. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“It’s okay,” we told him. “We really appreciate it, but we’ll pay on our own.”