Zurrn didn’t expect the attendant pumping gas into his van to start a conversation. He was in Pine Mills, a village that skirted the state forest near the Canadian border. The forest was known for bird-watching. It was dusk. Bishop’s General Store and Gas, where he’d stopped, was the only sign of life. The attendant, “Ferg,” according to the smudged name patch on his shirt, was chatty. “That’s right,” Zurrn said to his side-view mirror. “I figured.” Ferg clamped on his toothpick as the smell of gasoline wafted while the flow hummed. “I see by your plate you’re from Delaware. Folks that come that far, usually—” A sudden muffled sound from inside the van caught Ferg’s attention. Cupping his free hand to his temple, he drew his face to the tinted window. “You got a dog in there, or something?” Zurrn eyed him then caught the flash of a turn signal.
