I focused on the road, my strained, tense eyes nearly drooping from the lack of sleep and silent crying. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles were white. Life had given me a hard one. The silence was long and heavy, weighing on my emotionally raw heart like a ton of bricks. I pulled the car off the interstate at an empty exit, onto the worn country roads of rural Nebraska. It was the same route I’d driven many times when I was younger, but that was a long time ago. I’d since grown up, moved out, and started a family.  

The bright sun reflected off the silver paint on the car, shining back onto the road. Even my sunglasses couldn’t stop me from squinting against the blinding light. The view was bland—no trees, mountains, or hills. There was nothing in the countryside to block the sun. The interstate, along with the roads that had branched off of the exit, ran right along a large set of train tracks. The locomotives often sounded their horns, and the clack of the wheels on the track droned on for much of the day.  

There was something about the familiarity of my surroundings that brought memories rushing back over me. I wanted to be home, with the comforts of close family. Not home like the one I’d lived in for the last several years, but home like the one I grew up in. I just wasn’t sure how much like home it would feel without my brother.  

My daughter was asleep in the backseat, earbuds dangling from her ears. The drive had been long and tiring. I hadn’t stopped to rest; my anxiety would’ve kept me up, anyway. I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, taking a brief look at Waverly. There was no expression on her finely drawn face. She had her father’s looks, the same chocolate brown eyes as him. When I looked into my daughter’s eyes, it was almost exactly like looking into my husband’s eyes, but seeing Waverly asleep, her brown eyes closed, reminded me that I would never look into my husband’s beautiful eyes again.  

Part of me wanted Waverly to be awake, so she could see everything. I could tell her stories of my teenage life, events that occurred in those very spots. The other side of me, however, saw her silence as a much-welcomed break from her constant complaints.  

My eyes stayed on the road most of the time, occasionally glancing out the side window, watching the country view rush past. I could almost hear a voice in my head—the voice of my late brother, who I’d looked up to my whole childhood. My hands gripped the steering wheel harder than they had been, as I tried to hold myself together. I’d never gotten over it, losing my brother, I mean.  

I had mixed feelings about moving back to my hometown after so many years of living my life elsewhere. I longed to see the place where I’d spent so many of my teenage hours, hours mostly spent with my brother, but part of me felt twisted inside, a knot growing in my stomach. As much as I wanted to relive the happy moments, I didn’t want to relive the hard ones, the ones that had been much too frequent in my early life.  

I slowed the car to a stop outside the abandoned gas station my father and I had bought. I gently shook my daughter awake. Waverly groaned and rubbed her eyes, but she took her earbuds out and got up anyway. We both stepped out of the car onto the worn pavement, staring at the old building.  

Waverly rolled her eyes. “This place is a dump.” 

“It’s really not that bad,” I said, digging in my pocket for the rusty key. I shoved it into the lock and twisted hard. When the door creaked open, I heard Waverly make a barely audible groan.   

I flipped the light switch on and off, hoping the lights would turn on, but I knew no bill had been paid in decades. A warm breeze drafted through a cracked window, blowing my dirty-blonde hair into my eyes. I watched Waverly attempt to turn on the jukebox, something she’d never seen before. All the music she listened to came from her phone.  

“Why is this place so outdated?” Waverly muttered, wiping the dust from her hands to her pants.  

I didn’t stop walking around, taking a mental note of what had changed, if anything, but I acknowledged her inquiry. “This place closed down decades ago because of bankruptcy, but it had never made enough money to remodel before then.”  

“Bankruptcy?” Waverly asked.  

I nodded. “Yeah. It barely managed to stay in business, but things went rapidly downhill when the manager left.” 

I continued wandering through the old building, admiring the vintage flare the place had. If only Waverly could see inside my mind, see what made this place so important. She didn’t see the thoughtful conversations with my brother, the exciting nights with friends. It didn’t matter how much I wished. Waverly would never be able to see my experiences, my memories.  

Waverly only lasted another minute before she sat down on one of the old bar stools and got on Snapchat. It broke my heart a little to see what the new generation spent their time doing. It was a stark contrast, what kids these days did, compared to what I spent my time doing when I was their age.  

Dust from the objects I was picking up filled my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Out of breath, I sat down on the other bar stool for a moment. The metal legs were rusted, and the red leather was cracked and peeling. I closed my eyes and leaned against the counter like I used to, imagining I had a Coke in my hand and friends behind me.

I was fifteen, a high school sophomore, but there wasn’t an actual high school because every grade was in one building. So, everyone aged fourteen and older could go to the Homecoming dance. My brother and I had dates, and we all went together. My brother had been working at the gas station, but he got the day off for the dance. We still ended up at the station afterwards, anyway. Some of us sat on the bar stools, which were in much better condition then, while some of us sat on the counter. We had the Beatles playing on the old jukebox, and people were singing along and dancing. It was as if the dance had never ended. It was only a couple months before my brother got sick, but he had the most energy out of all of us.  

I snapped out of my thoughts when I spotted a couple doors off to the side. I opened one and walked through, finding the old car garage. I’d spent many hours there with my brother, watching him do oil changes and transmissions on vehicles, old and new. Most of the cars he worked on were old, though. The vintage vibe that the station gave off drew in a lot of people that had them 

My brother had taught me a lot about cars, like how they work and how to fix them. He and his buddies were good about letting me help. Some of the things they taught me had been really useful, especially after my husband, the man of the house, died.  

Sunlight was streaming through the dusty glass on the old garage doors. The room still smelled like oil, as it always had, but the stench of age now mingled with the familiar scent of cars. It was mostly empty—only old tools scattered the ground, and empty cans of gas sat in the corner—except for an old car at the end.  

I wondered if the car had belonged to one of the workers, or if someone had left it, but whoever it belonged to was not coming back. It had most likely been sitting there for around two decades. It was a rusted, black 1955 Ford Thunderbird, one that I had seen at the station many times. The leather seats were cracked and peeling, and the paint on the hood was chipping.  

When I stepped in for a closer look, I noticed the keys had been left on the front passenger seat. I leaned in the open window and unlocked the old car. I swung the door open and grabbed the keys, placing myself in the front seat. I turned the key, but nothing happened. I figured the battery was dead, seeing that the car had been sitting there for so long, so I quickly replaced it with an extra that I hoped worked. I tried turning the key again, but it still wouldn’t start. I climbed out and checked the engine again, looking closely to find anything wrong. I found acid corrosion around the battery terminal. I leaned against the car for a moment, thinking of what I could do. After a moment, I took off my shoe and tapped the battery terminal, trying to restore the battery connection.  

I tried once more to start the old T-Bird, turning the key. The engine sputtered, and the car roared to life. For just a minute, I felt the vibration of the engine before I turned the car off. I smiled with satisfaction. My brother would’ve been proud of me. If only he could’ve seen me start the old car after it had sat idle for years. If only he could’ve seen me try again with the old station. I could almost see his smile of happy satisfaction.  

I looked around a bit more, picking up all the old tools and moving them out of the way. I sifted through old papers left behind, putting them in a neat stack off to the side. I pushed the big garage doors open to air out the room a bit and stepped outside for a minute.  

I went back to the second door I’d found, but it was locked. I put my hand on the back of my neck and groaned, knowing I’d have to get in there at some point. I remembered seeing a crowbar in the garage, so I quickly grabbed it and forced it between the door and the frame. I heard wood splitting as I pried the door open, but it worked, and I was able to get inside.  

I let the musty air in the room clear before I walked in. After the dust settled down, I looked around. I saw filing drawers lining one wall—I knew each employee had had a filing drawer—all of which were still closed and undisturbed. I pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered, letting it fall closed behind me. Papers were scattered around the room, crunching under my feet as I walked through. I proceeded cautiously, being careful not to trip over the fallen chairs.  

I started on one side, trying to gently open the leftmost drawer, but it wouldn’t move. I had to yank it backwards to get it to open. The inside of the drawer was empty, with only an old nametag inside. One by one, I opened and searched through each drawer, all of them as empty as the first. I was a little over halfway down the wall, but again, I jerked another drawer open. This time, as the drawer slid out, I heard the shuffle of the papers.  

The drawer was filled to the brim. I started sifting through the papers, each one with “Maverick Robinson” printed at or near the top. My brother. My heart was beating so wildly I thought it would stop. The contents of this drawer were the only things my brother left behind, my only connection to him.  

I fingered through the papers, old family photos, pictures of him and his buddies and his girlfriend. I stared at one of the pictures, my teenage self staring back, a smile on her young face. In the picture, I was at a high school football game at North Platte with my brother and his friends. We had face paint and cheap beaded necklaces in our school color, red. It looked like we were having the time of our lives.  

I put the photos down when I noticed a thick stack of envelopes hidden under work contracts and bills. I carefully uncovered the pile of what appeared to be letters bound together with twine. I undid the loose knot keeping the envelopes together. I handled the papers gently, looking at the names addressed on the front.  

My brother had written them to our late mother. Wide-eyed, I carefully ripped one envelope open, taking the fragile paper out. The letter was written as if my mother was still alive, although she had died when we were young. Letter by letter, I read my brother's hopes and dreams, his regrets and worries. I jumped when the door creaked back open. My father walked in slowly and bent over, his wrinkled hands setting up the fallen chair, so he could sit down. The chair had wheels on the bottom, but the rust no longer allowed it to spin.  

“Dad, Ricky wrote letters to Mom,” I whispered, teary-eyed.  

I handed my father the letters I’d already read and watched his eyes water as he skimmed the pages. I opened another one, a photo falling out and onto my lap. I quickly read the letter, reading that my brother had included a photo to show my mother the car he’d bought. It was a 1985 Honda Accord. I’d only driven it once, but the memory of that night was vivid in my mind, newly sparked by the photo.

I was barely sixteen, closing up the gas station for the night and putting the key back in my pocket. I climbed into my brother’s Honda after work. I’d been taking his shifts since he got sick, so the gas station wouldn’t close permanently. Even when my brother was there, they were short on workers. My father had called a couple hours before and asked me to hurry to the hospital after the station was locked up for the night.  

My heart was racing, nearly pounding out of my chest as I drove down the dark roads, roads so rural that no streetlights could be found. I checked my mirrors constantly, making sure there were no cops around. I knew the risks of speeding, especially as a minor, but I needed to see my brother.  

I slammed to a stop in the hospital parking lot and ran inside to the front desk. “May I help you?” the lady there asked. 

I nodded. “I’m here to see Maverick Robinson.” 

The lady scanned a paper, and her face fell. “I’m sorry...” 

I furrowed my eyebrows. “What? Is there a problem?” 

“Maverick Robinson passed away about an hour ago.” 

My blood ran cold. No. No, this couldn’t be. Maybe she got it wrong. Maybe there was another Maverick Robinson. I didn’t want to believe it, yet I fell to my knees in misery and grief, tears flooding my eyes.

I reread the letters over and over, because I could almost hear my brother speaking. I could almost see my mother listening. All I had to do was close my eyes, and it was as if they were right there next to me. I gently caressed the fine paper, yellowed from years in a dusty drawer. I grabbed the magnets from the side of one of the cabinets and attached the papers to the front of the empty drawers. That way, when I was feeling down, I would have a piece of them to cheer me up. 

The door swung open, and Waverly stalked in, annoyed.

“What’s the wi-fi password?”  

I laughed. “We don’t have wi-fi yet. We don’t even have power.” 

My father grinned. “Back in my day, we had no wi-fi.”  

Waverly nearly gagged. “You survived in this ghost town with no one to talk to and no wi-fi?”  

“Those days were different. We had to be tougher,” he started, his teasing eyes glowing. “Back in my day, we didn’t have cellphones. If we were bored, we’d find a bug, tie a string to ‘em, and walk ‘em down the hill.”  

I smiled at the tall tale, and Waverly giggled to herself. My father always made me laugh, and that’s how it had always been.  

Waverly walked back to her stool in the other room and sat down, leaving the office room quiet again. My father left to get his power generator from his house, so I was left alone to finish exploring. I stayed in the small backroom of the gas station, going through each of the drawers, throwing out old junk and papers that had been left behind. I tossed out the contents of every drawer. Every drawer, that is, except my brother’s.  

My father arrived back at the station after only a minute and hooked up the large power generator. The power came on quickly. Lights flickered on, brightening the dark rooms. I smiled when I heard the electrical hum, faint enough that it was barely audible. The place looked like it was in better condition when the lights turned on, and I could discern what was garbage and what wasn’t.  

I started checking things to make sure they worked. I opened the small refrigerator, but no cool air was coming out. It would need to be replaced. I turned on nearly everything else, and almost all of it was working how it should. I meandered over to the jukebox in the main area to make sure it still worked. I inserted a dime and turned on the King. I placed my hands on my hips, a satisfied smile on my face.  

“Let’s get this place cleaned up,” I said with a cheerful tone.  

We started tearing old posters off the walls. Most of them were music posters and advertisements from the sixties and seventies that hadn’t been taken down. I would’ve loved to keep them on the walls, but they were so yellowed and faded that they crumbled in my hands when I took them down, fragile from age.  

Waverly squinted, looking at one of them. “Who was—” she hesitated, “Rolling Stones?”  

My father and I both gasped, and Waverly started laughing. After a laugh and a short explanation, our three-generation cleaning team scrubbed and swept to the tunes of Elvis Presley and the Beach Boys for hours. The walls and floor finally looked clean again, as if they were newly replaced. The dust had been wiped off every surface. In the main area, the only things in need of replacing were the old bar stools, but they would serve their purpose until they could be retired.  

My father grabbed the cooler he had hidden in his car and handed Cokes to all of us. He and Waverly sat on the stools, and I sat on the bar counter. We relaxed for a while, and my father and I told stories from my childhood and teenage life. We recounted many events that had gone down in that very building. 

My father moved over and stood by the window, watching cars slow down, almost stopping to check if the station was open, and driving off when they realized it wasn’t. Nearly every car that drove by seemed to be eyeing the gas station.  

“I think we’re going to do just fine in terms of business,” he said with a knowing smile. 

Waverly worked on the last of the cleaning, while my father checked to make sure everything was working. I grabbed a couple full trash bags, mostly things we’d collected from the cleaning, like posters and advertisements that had been glued to the wall. Standing at a distance, with a full view of the gas station, I smiled. I had an optimistic feeling about it.  

I went back inside, grabbing a box my father had offered to me. Inside were some miscellaneous items and a few lightbulbs to replace the ones that had burnt out long ago. Luckily, I didn’t have to replace all of them. I put up a ladder under the light fixture in the office room and set the box on the desk. I motioned for Waverly to join me.  

“Why don’t you help me replace these?”  

She nodded and sighed. “Okay. Why?”  

“What do you mean?”  

“Why are we even bothering with this?” Waverly asked.  

I smiled, gentle sadness tugging at the corners of my mouth. “When I reach out my hand, give me a lightbulb.” 
I climbed onto the ladder and unscrewed the broken bulbs from the ceiling. I reached out my hand towards Waverly, who placed a new lightbulb into my hand. “This one,” I said, as I screwed it into the ceiling. “This one is for your uncle.” I reached for another lightbulb. “This one is for your grandmother.” I reached for one last bulb. “And this one, Waverly, is for your father.” I lingered on the ladder for a moment, remembering those figures, taken from me too soon. I glanced around, noticing how even little things reminded me of them. It was almost as if they were there. “I’m home.”