A Rain-Soaked Drive and Blurred Signposts
East Suburb Dawson Gas Station. Its glaring sign cut through the rainy night. I braked sharply by a pump, tires splashing water. Not bothering to kill the engine, I bolted into the downpour. She followed, stumbling. Rain instantly soaked us. Inside, the station was starkly lit—a lone attendant in a fluorescent vest leaned behind the counter, glued to his phone. Empty. No sign of my brother’s car. No wreckage. Just the drumming rain and pumps' low hum. I wiped rain from my face and banged on the convenience store’s glass door.
Deserted Station and Hollow Echoes
The attendant glanced up slowly, ambled over, and cracked the door. "Yeah?" Cold wind and rain gusted in. "Please! Yesterday afternoon, around four, did you see a man..." I rattled off my brother’s description and car. She pressed close, eyes pleading. He frowned, blank-faced. "No clue. Weather was awful yesterday—not many people, but I don’t remember." He shut the door. Our last hope vanished. Rain trickled down my collar; I shivered. She stood beside me, shaking violently.
Futile Queries and Dead Ends
She didn’t sob, just bit her lip fiercely, eyes darting from the closed door to the empty station, then into the black downpour. Her gaze was terrifyingly vacant. The phone! His last location was here. If he wasn’t, and the car was gone, maybe his phone was nearby—dropped somewhere? The thought sparked like a match in darkness. "Find the phone!" I yelled, more to steel myself. Like madmen, we scoured the station’s edges—oily pavement, muddy puddles, trash bins. Rain blurred vision; our shoes sank in sludge.
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