He’d been around long enough to know what that meant. He didn’t move. He kept pumping fuel. Trent Vaughn walked up first.
22 years old. Cocky in the way only broke boys with nothing to lose are cocky. He whistled like he was impressed. Look at this antique, boys.
Grandpa rode his tricycle to the wrong side of town. Hank didn’t answer. Cody spat on the pavement 2 ft from Hank’s boot.
Old man, you lost? Nursing home’s the other way. Hank didn’t answer. The third one, Brett, laughed.
The other three spread out behind. Six of them now. Six on one. What, you deaf old-timer? Or just too old to hear?
Hank set the pump back in the cradle. He still didn’t turn around. Trent walked a slow circle around the Panhead, stopped at the front, pretended to admire it.
Whistled again. How much you think this thing’s worth, boys? Eight grand? 10?
That grandpa won’t even remember where he parked it tomorrow. A pickup truck rolled past the gas station. The driver looked, counted the numbers, kept driving.
Cody kicked the back tire. Hank’s shoulders tensed for half a second, then went still. He still didn’t turn around.
That stillness should have told them something. It didn’t. Trent’s smile dropped.
He walked over to the corner of the lot where the old air pump used to be. There was a metal toolbox sitting on its side, abandoned, half full of rust water and forgotten parts.
He reached in, pulled out a long, rusted pipe wrench. Heavy. The kind that breaks bone if it lands right.
He hefted it in his hand, tapped it against his palm. Keys, wallet, watch. Slow, old man, or this is going to leave a mark.
Hank turned around. For the first time, the boys saw his face. There was no fear in it, not even surprise.
His voice was low and steady, the voice of a man who had been in worse rooms than this. You don’t want to do this, son. Walk away.
Trent stared at him for half a second, then he laughed, sharp through his nose. Looked back at his boys. You hear that, boys? Old man thinks he’s giving us advice.
A young mother pushed a stroller toward the gas station entrance. She saw the six of them. She saw Hank.
She turned the stroller around and walked the other way. Inside the station, the clerk watched through the glass.
He saw the wrench. He counted the numbers. He slid the deadbolt across the door from the inside.
He did not pick up the phone. The first blow didn’t come from Trent. Cody stepped forward and slammed an empty beer bottle down on the concrete 6 in from Hank’s foot.
Glass exploded across the pavement. A warning shot. Hank didn’t move.
Behind him, Brett picked up a plastic patio chair, the cheap red kind the station kept for smokers, and swung it hard into Hank’s back.
The chair cracked. Hank’s body folded. He dropped to one knee on the broken glass. His breath left him in a single, rough exhale.