Dusty and romantic, it's a turn around exit for lost and frustrated drivers. You reach it much before the Pacific Ocean. They only sell regular. In God's name, who knows who would want to work at this gas station. Not country people either, the land's infertile, but for cacti, and miles of terra that separate him from her.
Scorpions inhabit it now until the attendants get off break.
Sun creaks into the gas station where it can, but mostly shadows paste the ceiling, wall, floor, and vending machine black. The windows are layered with dried dust and brown, and serve to camouflage the upper half of the station. Two attendants care for the station. Two brothers, both black, and born from the same two people. They both grew up from dirt.