The QuickSave night attendant looked like a nice guy–the way Ronnie Stroud imagined his own father might have looked if he’d lived longer, but lacking the flashpoint rage which kept the elder Stroud incarcerated more days than not during his wasted life.
I’m not my father. Ronnie repeated this lie as the doors parted before him and a solitary DING heralded him into the fluorescent kingdom of convenience.
But it was like this: Ronnie had a habit and a gun; the rabbit-eyed clerk stood between Ronnie and his need.
Telling himself he had no choice made it bearable.