She was young — couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty — with blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hands were trembling so hard she could barely hold the coins she was counting. Pennies, dimes, quarters. Maybe three dollars total.

I’d already swiped my card and started her pump before she realized what I was doing.

“Honey,” I said, “it’s already running. Nothing to stop now.”

Her eyes went wide with real fear, not embarrassment. “My boyfriend is inside getting cigarettes. If he sees this… if he thinks I asked you for help… he’s going to lose it. Please, please stop.”

“How much gas does he usually let you buy?” I asked, watching the numbers climb.

Her face twisted like she was ashamed of the answer. “Whatever my change adds up to. Usually half a gallon