Jack Miller didn't care about the sky. He cared about the oil change he had to do at four o'clock and the pump that was broken at the corner of Route 6 and Main and the bottle of whiskey in his locker that he was saving for Friday.

The sky was the sky. It was blue in the morning and gray at night. Sometimes there were clouds. Sometimes there weren't. Jack didn't think about it.

Boss Thompson cared about the sky.

Boss was fifty-two, a little thin, with a face like a hammer and hands that had fixed more engines than he could count. He had been in Vietnam. He had come back with a leg that hurt when it rained and a mind that didn't.

"Look at it," Boss said one morning in March. He was standing in front of the station, looking up at the sky.

Jack was under a Ford pickup, tightening a bolt on the transmission. "Look at what?"

"The sky."

"Okay."

"You see that light?"

Jack looked up. There was a light in the sky. It was small and white and moving slowly from east to west. It could have been a plane. It could have been a star. It could have been nothing.

"No," Jack said. "I don't."

Boss looked at him. "It's been there for three weeks. Moving slow. Not like a plane. Not like a satellite."

"Must be something."

"Must be." Boss looked back at the sky. "I worked at NASA for two years, after Vietnam. Before the station. Before you. I was a technician. I built telescopes."

"Okay."

"One night, I looked through one of them. I saw something. Something that shouldn't be there. I told my supervisor. He told me to go home."

"Did you go home?"

"I went home. I drank a beer. I went to bed. And the next morning, I quit."

Jack tightened the bolt. "Why?"

"Because some things you see, you can't unsee. And some things you can't unsee, you can't unthink. And some things you can't unthink, you can't live with."

He looked at Jack. "You ever think about that?"

"Think about what?"

"About the things we don't talk about."

Jack shook his head. "I don't think much. Thinking hurts."

Boss smiled. It was a sad smile. "Yeah. I know."

---

The Professor came to the station on a Tuesday.

He was forty, maybe, with thinning hair and glasses that had one cracked lens. He wore a suit to a gas station, which told Jack something about the state of the world.

"I need to use your phone," the Professor said.

"We don't have a phone."

"I saw one in the office."

"Office phone's broken. Been broken since January."

The Professor looked at the sky. "How long has it been broken?"

"Since January. Maybe longer."

The Professor nodded. He walked back to his car—a dusty sedan with a flat tire and an empty tank—and got in. He sat there for a long time, looking at the steering wheel like it was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

Jack went back to the Ford pickup. He was changing the oil when he heard the Professor's voice. It was coming from the office. The Professor was on the broken phone, talking to nobody.

"It's been there," he said. "It's been there all along. We just didn't see it. We were looking at the stars. But it wasn't in the stars. It was in the space between the stars. The empty space. The dark space. The space that isn't empty. The space that is—."

He stopped. He hung up the phone. He got in his car and drove away.

Jack finished the oil change. He washed the windshield. He filled the tank with three dollars worth of gas—the cheapest grade, the one that made the engine sputter—and handed the man the receipt.

"That'll be eight-fifty," Jack said.

The Professor paid with crumpled bills. He looked at Jack. "You know," he said, "you're the sanest person I've met in months."

"Why's that?"

"Because you don't think about it. Because you don't look at the sky and wonder what's looking back. Because you just—." He searched for the word. "—you just live."

"Living's enough."

The Professor smiled. "Is it?"

He got in his car and drove away. Jack watched him go. The car disappeared around the corner, and Jack went back to work.

---

Sue came to the station on Thursday.

She was twenty-two, with long brown hair and a smile that made Jack forget about the oil change and the broken pump and the bottle of whiskey in his locker.

"I need gas," she said.

Jack looked at her tank. It was half full. "You don't need gas."

"I need gas."

He put gas in her car. It was a small thing. A nothing thing. But it felt like something.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Jack."

"Jack who?"

"Jack Miller."

"Jack Miller," she repeated. "That's a nice name. It sounds—strong. Reliable."

Jack didn't feel strong or reliable. He felt like a guy who spent his days changing oil and fixing engines and drinking whiskey on Friday nights. He felt like a guy who had never left Ohio and never wanted to.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Sue. Sweet Sue. Everyone calls me Sweet Sue."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sweet. And because I work at a bar. And because men like to call women sweet things before they do something unpleasant to them."

She smiled. It was a sad smile. Jack didn't like it.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"Nowhere. Just driving. I don't have anywhere to go."

Jack looked at her car. It was a small sedan, pink and dented, with a bumper sticker that said "LIVE FREE OR DIE." He wondered if she was running from something or toward something.

"Want to get a beer?" he asked.

She looked at him. "It's four in the afternoon."

"I know."

"I know that."

"Want to?"

She thought about it. Then she nodded. "Yeah. I want to."

They got beers. They sat on the curb in front of the station and drank them. The sun was going down. The sky was orange and purple and gray. It was the kind of sky that made you feel nothing and everything at the same time.

"Do you ever think about it?" Sue asked.

"About what?"

"About the sky. About the light. About the things Boss Thompson sees."

Jack finished his beer. He set the bottle down on the curb. "No. I don't think about it."

"Why not?"

"Because thinking about it doesn't change anything. The sky is the sky. The light is the light. And I've got a life to live. And I live it. That's all."

She looked at him. "You're different from most people I know."

"How so?"

"Because you don't worry. Because you don't think. Because you just—live."

"Living's enough."

She finished her beer. She set the bottle down next to his. She stood up.

"I should go," she said.

"Okay."

"Thank you for the beer."

"Thank you for letting me buy it."

She smiled. It was a real smile this time. Not a sad smile. Not a bitter smile. A real smile.

Then she walked to her car and drove away, and Jack went back to work.

---

The light in the sky got brighter.

Boss noticed it first. He was standing in front of the station, looking up, when he said: "It's getting brighter."

Jack was under a Chevy, working on the brakes. "What is?"

"The light. It's getting brighter. Every day. It's—." He stopped. "It's getting bigger."

"Must be a planet."

"No. Planets don't move like that. Planets don't—." He looked at Jack. "Planets don't come this close."

"How close?"

"Close. Close enough that if you look through a telescope, you can see—." He stopped. "You can see things on it."

"Things?"

"Structures. Buildings. Cities. Whatever you want to call them."

Jack tightened the brake caliper. "Must be aliens."

"Must be."

"Like in the movies."

"Like in the movies."

Jack stood up. He wiped his hands on a rag. "What you gonna do about it?"

Boss looked at him. "What can I do? I run a gas station. I change oil. I fix engines. I don't—." He stopped. "I don't save the world."

"Nobody's asking you to."

Boss looked at the sky again. "I used to. Before Vietnam. Before NASA. Before—." He shook his head. "Before I learned that the world doesn't need saving. The world needs ignoring. The world needs letting go."

Jack picked up his wrench. "I'm gonna go get a beer."

"Okay."

Jack went to the cooler. He took out a beer. He opened it. He drank it. It was cold. It was good.

He went back to work. He fixed the brakes. He washed the windshield. He filled the tank. He handed the receipt to the next customer.

And all the while, the light in the sky got brighter.

And nobody at the gas station cared.

Because they had lives to live. And they lived them. That's all.