We made it to Flagstaff. I pulled into a gas station. The tank was only down a quarter, but I filled it anyway.
The sun was hot. The sky was blue and clean. A few white clouds hung over the mountain, like smoke that didn’t move. I felt the heat on my arm as I opened the door. It was 5:24.
I filled the tank. It wasn’t much. Six and a half gallons. Cost me $20.39. I remembered the early road trips. I remembered my parents.
They always watched the gas. Wrote it down. How much it cost. How much they got. They filled up before they had to. That way they never ran out.
It was good to think about. Those old road trips. The way it used to be.
I have one of their logbooks from a 1990 era trip to Phoenix.
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