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He handed the ticket pad through the open window. “Sign here.”
    “But this isn’t fair. There wasn’t any sign.”
    “I tell you what. You refuse to sign that ticket, and we’ll show you how fair we’ll treat you in the Michaeltown jail.” He dropped the pad into Zack’s lap.
    Zack shook his head and picked it up. “This is Michaeltown?” He signed the pad and handed it back.
    “That’s right. Now, that’ll be twenty dollars.”
    “You want me to pay right here? You mean you do the collecting, too?”
    “You don’t expect us to trust drifters, do you? I’ll give you a receipt. Of course, you could fight this ticket in court. Next session is a week from Tuesday. It’ll be your word against mine. What will it be?” He made a “come here” motion with his fingers. “Save you a lot of trouble if you pay now, since I’d have to impound your car until the trial.”
    Zack sighed and opened his wallet. “Justice, you can’t beat it.” He handed over one of his precious twenty-dollar bills. There went a few meals, he thought. “I never should have left Detroit,” he mumbled.
    “You said it.” The cop scribbled something at the bottom of the ticket, tore off a yellow copy, and handed it to Zack. “Where you headed anyway, boy?”
    “First of all, I’m not your boy. Second, it’s none of your business. The last I heard, this was a free country.” He started his car and jammed it into gear. With a curt nod to the cop, he pulled away. Zack could see him in his mirror, hands on his hips, watching Zack drive away. He then turned and walked back toward his car.
     
    ---
     
    Sheriff Elton Procter shook his head, as he walked back to his car. Smart-ass drifters. That’s all we need around here, he thought. Well, hopefully this one would do his business and move on. He removed his hat, revealing his thin, gray comb-over, and climbed back into his car. He hadn’t been able to check the car’s license plate for a “wanted” status or warrants because their county didn’t have the fancy new computers in the patrol cars like the big city cops had. The registration and driver’s license had matched the Michigan plates, which probably meant he was just passing through town, most likely looking for gas. He wished they’d remove that damn sign out at the freeway. They didn’t need tourists or drifters in Michaeltown. The sheriff drove away, intent on keeping a watchful eye on this one. He headed for the station.
     
     
    Chapter 10
     
    Zack pulled into a gas station that appeared on the right as he entered the town. Looking around, he spotted a long, white cooler with a sign taped on it, which read “Cold Soda, 50 Cents.” Zack wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked to the cooler. Opening the lid, he found a dozen ice-cold, frosted bottles of Coke. He reached into the cooler, cold air hitting his face, and pulled out a bottle.
    “Hotter than hell today,” said a male voice from somewhere.
    An older attendant appeared from within the garage bay and walked toward Zack’s car. His shoulders drooped in a pair of gray coveralls with an “Exxon” patch on the breast pocket. He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Mrs. Washa’s starter went out. Had to order a new one outta Cinci. Just passing through?” He removed Zack’s gas cap and slipped in the nozzle. He seemed friendly enough.
    “Sort of,” He popped the bottle top on an opener mounted on the side of the cooler. “Unless I can find a job around here.”
    “Fill ’er up?” He began pumping when Zack nodded. “Well, there usually isn’t much hiring going on around here. You might do better in a big city.”
    Zack sat on his front fender while the old man cleaned his windows.
    “Where do all the people around here work?”
    The attendant scraped at a large bug that had smashed against the windshield as he spoke. “If they’re not farmers, they work at one of the stores in town or out at the box factory. Most work at the