The Stone on the Counter

The gas station was on Route 66, thirty miles from the nearest town and forty from the nearest thing that could be called civilization. Tom Bradley had been running it for eight years. Before that, he'd taught chemistry at a community college in Albuquerque for twelve. Before that, he'd had a wife and a daughter and a life that made sense.

None of that mattered now. Now there was the gas station, the pump that always needed adjusting, the refrigerator that sold more ice than soda, and the weather radio that played all day.

It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were the slowest days. Twelve cars. Maybe fifteen if a tour bus passed through. Tom had refueled eight by noon. He'd sold four bags of chips, two bottles of water, and a lottery ticket to a man in a pickup truck who said he was going to win and Tom had said, hoping, that he was, and the man had said, with the certainty of men who had never won anything, that he was.

The radio said there was a storm coming from the west. It always said that. The storm never came.

At 2:47 PM, a black sedan pulled in. It was an expensive car—Lincoln, maybe, or Cadillac, Tom couldn't tell—and it had a driver who wore a suit and a tie and sunglasses despite the overcast sky. The driver got out. He was forty, maybe forty-five. He had a face that Tom would not be able to describe later if asked. Average height. Average build. The kind of face that blended into a crowd.

"Fill it up," the man said. His voice was smooth. East Coast. He might have been from New York or Boston or someplace where people didn't say "y'all."

Tom filled it up. The tank was almost full. Two gallons. He went inside to ring it up.

The man was already inside, standing at the counter, looking at the candy bars. He picked up a pack of gum, put it back. Picked up a water, paid for it.

"Total is eight forty," Tom said.

The man reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small object and set it on the counter. It was a stone. Grey, with blue lines running through it like veins. Irregular shape. Maybe two inches long.

"Keep the change," the man said.

Tom looked at the stone. He looked at the man. "Sir, the total is—"

"Keep it. It's change."

The man left. Tom stood at the counter, looking at the stone. He picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Cool to the touch. The blue lines were faint, almost invisible unless you held it at a certain angle.

He put it on the counter, behind the register, where it would be out of the way. Then he went outside to watch the road.

No tour bus came. Three more cars passed. One stopped for gas. Tom refueled it. The driver asked about the weather. Tom said it looked like rain. The driver said it never rained here. Tom said, that's what he'd heard.

Back inside, the stone was glowing.

Not brightly. Not enough to light the store. But enough that Tom noticed it when he came back. A faint blue light, coming from the blue lines in the stone. Pulsing. Slow. Like a heartbeat.

Tom stood there for a minute. He looked at the stone. He looked at the door. He looked at the weather radio.

He picked up a rag and wiped the counter. The stone was still glowing.

He went to the back room. He sat down. He listened to the weather radio. The storm was still coming from the west. It had been coming from the west for three days.

He came back ten minutes later. The stone was still glowing. The glow was slightly brighter. He could see the blue lines more clearly now. They weren't just lines. They were patterns. Like circuitry. Like a map.

He picked up the stone. He held it in his palm. It was warm now. Not hot. Warm. Like a cup of coffee that had been sitting too long.

He set it down. He went to the refrigerator. He got a beer. He opened it. He drank it standing up.

The stone pulsed. The blue light spread. It was no longer just in the lines. It was spreading through the stone, filling it, making the grey turn blue.

Tom watched it. He thought about calling someone. He thought about who he would call. There was no one to call.

He finished the beer. He put the can in the trash. He looked at the stone.

The stone had stopped glowing.

He picked it up. It was cool again. The blue lines were still there. But the stone was different. There was a crack running through it. A thin crack, like a hairline fracture. And through the crack, something golden was visible. Not gold. Something like gold. Metallic, but not quite.

He put the stone back on the counter. He went to the back room. He sat down. He listened to the weather radio.

The next morning, the stone was glowing again. Brighter this time. The crack had widened. The golden substance inside was more visible. It looked like liquid. Or maybe light trapped in solid form.

Tom refueled five cars that morning. One of them was a pickup truck with a family in it—father, mother, two kids. The kids saw the stone.

"What's that?" the boy asked.

"Nothing," Tom said.

"Is it glowing?" the girl asked.

Tom looked at the stone. It was glowing. Faintly. Barely visible.

"Old fluorescent paint," he said. "Got spilled on it years ago."

The kids believed him. Kids believed anything.

The father paid for gas. Tom gave him a coupon for a free coffee. The father said thanks. The family drove away. Tom watched them go. He watched the dust settle. He watched the road.

He went back inside. He looked at the stone.

The glow was getting stronger. Every day it was stronger. Every day the crack was wider. Every day the golden substance was more visible. Tom didn't know what it was. He'd been a chemistry teacher once. He knew about fluorescence. He knew about phosphorescence. He knew about luminescence. But this was none of those. This was something else. Something he didn't have a name for.

He should have done something. He should have tested it. Analyzed it. Written it down. He had the equipment—he'd kept some of his old lab supplies in the back room, in a cabinet labeled "Chemicals" though most of them had long since expired.

He didn't do any of that. He wiped the counter. He refueled the cars. He sold the chips and the water and the lottery tickets. He listened to the weather radio.

The storm was still coming from the west.

On the fifth day, the stone cracked open.

Not dramatically. Not with a sound. It just opened, like a pod splitting, and the golden substance inside spilled out onto the counter. It was a thick liquid, viscous, slow-moving. It spread across the surface of the counter in a thin layer, shimmering in the fluorescent light.

Tom stood there. He looked at the golden liquid. He looked at the stone, now in two pieces, each half containing a fragment of the blue pattern.

He picked up a rag. He wiped the counter. The golden liquid absorbed into the rag. The rag turned gold.

He threw the rag in the trash. He wiped the counter again with a clean rag. The counter was clean. The stone halves were still there.

He put them back on the counter, behind the register, where they would be out of the way.

That evening, he locked the door. He turned the sign to CLOSED. He went to the back room. He sat down. He listened to the weather radio.

The storm was still coming from the west.

In the store, the stone halves sat on the counter. They did not glow. They did not pulse. They did not move. They were just two pieces of grey stone with blue lines, sitting on a Formica counter in a gas station thirty miles from the nearest town.

Tomorrow, the sign would say OPEN. The pumps would need adjusting. The refrigerator would need defrosting. The weather radio would say the storm was still coming from the west.

And the stone would sit on the counter, waiting for someone to notice it, or not notice it, in a place where nothing happened and everything was happening and the difference between the two was something Tom had stopped trying to understand.

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