The inside of the Circle-K off the I-90 feels like most places you’d end up in the middle of the night: hot and fluorescent and overwhelming and sad.

Behind me, a group of guys come in bringing a reminder of the winter outside. I pull my coat tighter and step aside for them. They’re on a beer run. I know because they smell like the start of an afterhours party, which is sweat mixed with an undeserved sense of accomplishment. They make for the hotdogs.

But Christ, it’s hot in here. This coat is killing me. I unbutton the top button. My mouth tastes like a dead thing.

I think about caffeine, the kick up. I glance over at the hot dogs, then find myself unable to look away. I’m mesmerized by them. They go around and around wasting their lives. That yellow lamp makes them sick and burned and they don’t even care. READ MORE fiction at fwriction: review