I’d already put my credit card in her pump before I walked over. “It’s already going, sweetheart. Can’t stop it now.”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper. “My boyfriend, he doesn’t like when people help me. He says it makes him look weak. He’s inside getting cigarettes and if he sees you—”

“How much does he usually let you put in?” I asked, watching the numbers climb on the pump.

Her face crumpled. “Whatever these coins buy. Usually about half a gallon. Enough to get home.”

I’m sixty-six years old. Been riding for forty-three years. Seen a lot of