The gas pump had just stopped when the teenager handed me back my phone.
He borrowed it for less than a minute.
He was now standing in front of me, his worn backpack clutched to his side, scanning the gas station parking lot as if he were waiting for someone to arrive.
“Thank you, madam,” he said softly.
I smiled.
“You are welcome.”
I looked for my car keys. Rent a car
Then he approached.
His expression changed.
The polite smile disappeared.
He lowered his voice until I could barely hear him.
“Your husband pays me to take care of you.”
I even laughed for a moment.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain refused to process what I was hearing.
“I think you’ve gotten involved with the wrong person.”
The boy shook his head.
“No, madam.”
“My husband is a doctor,” I said. “He would never do a
