The front bumper of the 1974 GMC transit coach pressed hard against the exterior plate glass.
Two inches of cold commercial plate glass separated Julian Vance from four tons of idling steel, rusted sheet metal, and choking diesel exhaust.
The low-frequency vibration traveled straight through the concrete footing of the storefront, humming in the soles of Julian’s work boots like an electric current. Outside in the dark rain, the massive dual exhaust pipe behind the rear axle coughed thick plumes of black, oily smoke that billowed upward against the glass, coating the neon green lettering in greasy soot.
The bus was not just parked at the curb.
Its front tires were resting squarely inside the yellow painted lines of the store’s abandoned gas pump forecourt.
Forty years ago, before the Bureau of Shift Standards took over the district, Starlight Mart #04 had operated two pumps of leaded gasoline under a corrugated tin canopy. The pumps had been dead since 1984, their analog rolling dials rusted solid at thirty-eight cents a gallon, but the municipal transit authority still recognized the asphalt pad as a commercial loading zone.
The folding pneumatic passenger doors of the coach hissed open with the sound of a diver surfacing for air in deep water.
