Harold glances up from his place perched atop a chipped metal stool in front of the small flat-screen television hanging from a broken metal bracket in the corner of the New Brunswick, Illinois, 7-Eleven. An old rerun of an entry from the Death Wish trilogy fights through poor reception, blurred with static.

Bored and drowsy, Harold angles his left wrist for a view of his watch: 10:17. Oh man, forty-three minutes to go.

John, the night-shift manager, proudly displays a name tag reflecting his title on the front pocket of his white, short-sleeved, button-down work shirt, leans on the counter behind the register, the old wood groaning under his three hundred pounds. “Harold, why don’t you go out and walk the lot for trash. It’s about that time. I’ll mop up.”

“Okay.” Harold sighs, straightening his legs, wincing at the pop in his knee and creak in his ankle. He yawns, stretches his arms toward the ceiling, hearing another pop in his neck that rattles its way down his spine. He runs his hands over his head, through hair thinning faster than it can replenish. At least the cool air will feel nice and help him get through the end of his shift.

He shuffles past the newspaper stand—the lotto only fifteen million today, not worth the effort—and in front of the cash register, where he notices a harsh look from his manager.

The door chimes on his way out into the night. He begins his survey in the usual spot, at the far corner of the parking lot out front, looking for trash, hoping to find some money dropped by some poor, unfortunate soul. Maybe I’ll find another ten-dollar bill.

Harold strolls around, scanning the ground. Near the dented green dumpster, resting against the brick facade, he notices a crumpled piece of paper and rushes over.

Bummer. Only a hot-dog boat smeared with mustard and a plastic Big Gulp with half-melted ice, swarming with ants. He pulls a black trash bag from the frayed back pocket of his blue Dickies. He picks up the refuse, wishing he’d remembered to wear his rubber cleaning gloves, and sticks it in the trash bag. One grid of the empty parking lot down.

A light sprinkle of rain falls from the clouded night sky. Harold glances up, sees the faded lights of a plane on its descent into New Brunswick International, glowing through the low cover, hears the rumble of its engines. He rounds the corner, strolls toward the back of the lot. He blinks a few times, gazing at something in a crumpled mess on the ground.

Is that a body?

He races over, dropping his trash bag, and scrapes his knee on the cracked asphalt crouching next to the body.

A woman lies facedown, bruised, blood pooling under her head. Gashes covering her bare arms and legs pour forth their red liquid of life. One of her arms is twisted at a perilous angle. Harold winces just considering it.

He leans up, hyperventilating, for what seems like forever. He stands, uncertain what to do, runs back into the store.

“John, there’s a dead girl out back! Oh my God, call someone! What do we do? Call the police? The doctor? Um, a funeral home? Quick, call nine-one-one, they’ll know what to do.”

“Jesus, breathe man,” John says, his face going paler than usual. He drops his mop and shuffles outside.

“She’s over here,” Harold shouts from the corner of the lot. He peeks around John as they approach the sprawled-out girl. Dumbfounded, Harold stares at the girl, then at John.

John stammers, “You-You’re right, a de-dead girl!”

They run back inside the store. John grabs the cordless phone. He dials nine-one-one but misdials, connecting on the second attempt. “We have a dead body here,” he shouts. “Send someone over—the police or something—quick!” John hangs up.

They head back outside.

Almost immediately, the phone rings.

Harold grabs the phone. “Um… 7… um… Eleven.”

A lady says, “Sir, we just received a call from this number stating that there’s a dead body at your location.”

Harold responds, a quiver in his voice, “Yes, that was John, the night supervisor.”

“John, your supervisor, is dead?”

“No! He called you all.”

“This is the New Brunswick Emergency Response Services. Please give me your address.”

“Um… Five-Four-Nine-Six—wait, no, Four-Five-Nine-Six Fourth Street. Please, send someone right away!”

Harold hangs up, glances back at his watch: 10:35. He sighs, exasperated. No way he’ll be finished with his shift on time tonight.