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NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
cash. Use your credit card.”
Why had she listened to Mark.
“We’re ok to get to the next town.” He’d said.
“There’s almost a quarter tank left.”
But this wasn’t cute little Holland, where they
lived, with gas stations everywhere; this was the
Garden Route of the Western Cape of big old South
Africa, where gas stations are few and far between.
The last town was 30 miles behind them, and the
next one lay 15 miles ahead.
They knew they were driving on fumes. Hearts
pounding, they didn’t dare speak. The sun was below
the horizon. Then, rounding a bend, they saw a sign.
“Fuel and Oil: 5 miles.” Mark exhaled between pursed
lips. Miriam put her foot down.
The place had seen better days. Lights were out on
the pumps and the sign sprayed on the repair bay door
said “closed.” But lights were on around the side, near
the back.
Miriam pulled onto the forecourt and up to a rusty,
broken gas pump. They both got out. “This doesn’t
look good.” Mark said.
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