It takes all of my energy to crawl out of bed the following morning. All evening, I had tossed and turned. My mind kept going over the events of the previous day.

"What is really goin' on?" I mutter to myself.

I grab my phone and immediately notice the glowing notification icon. I expect to see a text, or a missed phone call from Tilda. Instead, it is my work foreman. I'm not surprised to learn that I've been laid off. According to the boss, seven men-- on a job that should take no more than four-- was three men too many. And I had drawn the short straw.

With a shrug, I realize I now have time to build that table my cousin Willie was always buggin' me about. That was an easy couple hundred bucks, right there. Throw in a few car repairs for some buddies of mine, and I'd be okay. Layoffs never really last around here. There's always something which needs fixing. No use stressin' over it. It was a done deal.

I take the longest shower imaginable, and then set out for the kitchen. Breakfast. Nothin' real heavy. I'm still groggy from lack of sleep the previous night. Maybe some toast and a couple eggs.

It is only after I sit down, to devour my food, that I notice Tilda is still not home. I check my phone for a missed call. Nothin'. Maybe she'd decided to spend the day at her mother's? Maybe she was on the road right now?

I send Tilda a smile emoji and decide it is better not to nag her. I devour my eggs and toast with great abandon.

*************************************

Circle K Gas Station

12:07 pm

I find myself tapping nervously on the hood of my truck, as gas slowly oozes into the tank. A car horn honks directly behind me and I look over my right shoulder. Carla Webber waves energetically from the driver's seat of her Camry. She lowers the front window and sticks her head out.

"Hey, James! Fancy meetin' you here!"

I offer her a slight smile and hurry to finish pumping my gas. By this point, I'm worried sick 'bout Tilda. Not a peep from her since the message yesterday. Even after two failed attempts to get her on the phone. Worry has crept into every inch of me. Making me feel numb inside. Where is my wife? And why isn't she answerin' her phone?

"James, you okay?"

I nearly jump out of my skin. A combination of sleep deprivation, being lost in thought, and fear for my missing wife. My voice comes out a raspy whisper.

"I'm fine. Didn't get much sleep last night. I'm good."

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to spook you. I thought you heard me callin' you. I wanted to see if you were feeling okay. Well, I'll see ya later."

Carla turns to leave. It's evident I've hurt her feelings with my abruptness.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Eh, uh...Carla?"

She's slow to turn back in my direction. A look crosses her face. Almost like suspicion.

"Yeah?"

"What do you say we all plan a barbeque this weekend? Or next weekend? We can have it after church. Me and Tilda...You and Richard. We can catch up on old times."

Carla appears noncommittal. She nods slowly, the suspicious look never quite leaving her face.

"Uh, sure. This Sunday...After church. I'll bring potato salad...And dessert. Maybe have Richard marinate some steaks and some chicken. Your place?"

"Sure," I utter.

"Okay. See you Sunday." Carla enters the gas station and heads for the back. I watch, through the glass, as she grabs two large bags of ice.

I return to the pump and grab my receipt. I then replace the gas cap on my truck, lock it, and shut the compartment door. I'm just climbing behind the wheel, when the sound of breaking glass shatters the afternoon air. My attention returns to the gas station.

A large, burly man stands at the front of the station's entrance. One beefy hand drips blood, and his face is nearly as red to match. If he had been a cartoon villain, I would bet his eyes were also red. His eyes. His angry eyes. Eyes which were boring holes into Carla's face.

Carla stands just inside the entrance, in front of the counter. Her two bags of ice held firmly in tightly clenched fists.

"JUST WHAT THE HELL DO YA THINK YER DOIN'?" comes the deep growl of the burly man's voice.

Carla stands her ground, and tightens her grip on the bags of ice.

"Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about! I'm just trying to get some ice and go home. I'm not doin' anything!"

"So you didn't see me comin' and decide to hit me wit' the door?"

Carla seems both amused and confused. Her brow raises and a slight smile turns up her pretty lips.

"I never hit you with the door, Sir. But even if I had...Punching a fist through a window...Says more about you than it does me. I think you need serious help."

Before Carla can react, the beefy man punches her with the same bloody, dripping fist. Carla crumples to the floor. She falls onto one of her bags of ice with a loud crunch. The other bag of ice slides across the floor, bumps the counter, and comes to a stop. A puddle already forming under the plastic bag. Carla lies on her side, cradling her face.

I am out of my truck in seconds--footsteps pounding the pavement. The person behind the station counter hollers and presses the silent alarm which summons the police. The large man pays the cashier no heed and straddles Carla. He pulls her ponytail, wrenching her head up, forcing her to look at him.

"Gurl...You lucky my momma raised me right. Or I'd kill ya right where ya lay. That's the problem with you folk...Too much lip. Ain't talkin' now though, are ya?"

The next thing Mr. Beefy hears is a gun cocking behind his ear. After the events of the previous evening, my pistol has not left my side.

"Let her up!" I yell.

Mr. Beefy turns his head on his fat neck and meets my gaze. His eyes are like someone who is either high or stupidly drunk-- unfocused and unusually shiny. Maybe he's in the grips of a diabetic fit? I had heard of that before. Maybe he really is sick? Either way, still no excuse to be beatin' on women.

"I said...Let her up! Now!"

The cashier stares from me to Mr. Beefy, unsure of what to think.

"You one of them?" Mr. Beefy growls menacingly. "You gonna shoot me...for her?"

"I'll drop any asshole who puts his hand on a woman! Now, let her up! I won't be sayin' it again!"

Slowly, Mr. Beefy removes his hulking weight from atop Carla's small frame. She draws in a sharp breath as he roughly releases her ponytail. Shambling to his feet, Mr. Beefy raises both arms and meets my gaze. He backs slowly against the newspaper rack.

For the second day in a row, I am relieved to hear sirens approaching. Not so sure, the police will be pleased to see me-- again.

I turn slightly to look at Carla, keeping my gun trained on Mr. Beefy. She is reclining against the station counter now. Her nose is bleeding badly. It doesn't appear broken though. Which is nice. I always thought Carla had a cute nose. The cashier hands her a wad of paper towel and Carla begins blotting her nose.

"Do ya want me to go with you to the hospital? 'Cause I can?"

Carla meets my gaze and heaves a dejected sigh.

"Sure. Richard won't be home for hours...And I don't want to call him about this. He'll fly home in a rage. Maybe even get in an accident. But, yeah. Thank you."

I look outside to my truck, where my phone sits on the dash. Tilda.