"You're cheerful enough, Sharon," the kid told her. "What's the matter?"
"Why, it's nothing at all. We're just out of gas, nothing else." She turned to Mickey Groff. "Mr. Zehedi's compliments, sir, and would you like to help him scout up some petrol?"
They found the blacked-out gas station after squelching for a couple of interminable minutes through the sopping night.
"I thought I had plenty of gas. How'd I know we'd be driving all over the valley? You said just a quarter of a mile down the road and—"
"Shut up and let's see if we can get in," Groff ordered. Zehedi's whining was getting on his nerves.
There wasn't a soul in the station. Not even a night light. Probably no power, Groff thought. That meant no burglar alarms in case they couldn't find an unlocked window—though hell, he thought wryly, wouldn't it be nice if a State Police car did come screeching up?
"Up you go," he told Zehedi, clasping his hands to receive the toe of Zehedi's foot.
"Locked," reported Zehedi after a moment.
"Break it open. With your elbow. Try not to cut an artery. Then when you get inside see if—" He jerked his head aside as glass tinkled around him.