it’s your gas. But you paid for that gas, and if we take it without paying you, you’re going to be left holding the short end of the stick when the power comes back on.”
“People don’t have money—”
Ted. Of course. For a surprisingly potent moment she thought about shooting him the finger, something she’d never done to anyone’s face before. The urge was so strong she had to clench her hands. One day, though . . . well, maybe. She’d need to work on that. The unrelenting stress was either wearing her down or building her up, and she wasn’t sure which.
Trey held up his hand. “I know that. Hear me out. We should pump it out in five-gallon cans so we can write down who gets how much, and the price gas cost when the grid went down. When everything gets back to normal, people should pay you for the gas. That’s only right. You can’t afford to just give away thousands of dollars of gasoline.”
He was right, and she hadn’t thought that far. Her mind had been more on using the gas before it went bad, and helping people survive the winter, than it had been on profit and loss. She had kept the much smaller tank, the one with hundred percent gasoline in it, for herself and emergencies and she felt guilty doing even that, but she had three other people to think of and take care of.
She looked around at her empty store—and it was completely empty. The shelves and refrigeration spaces were bare, not a cracker left, not a can of Spam, literally nothing other than some oil and fuel additives. She’d have to completely restock, and wouldn’t be able to do it all at once because goods would only gradually become available again. Who knew when the pipelines would start moving oil to the refineries again? Just living was going to be a struggle, at least until spring.
“That’s all I have to say. Y’all get the word out about the gasoline. I’m not going to play favorites, not going to pick and choose who gets it—except for maybe someone with a gas-fired kiln, but that will benefit all of us and could save some lives this winter. Starting at nine o’clock tomorrow, if Trey has a suction pump going, we’ll start emptying the tanks. I suggest y’all drive here and have your vehicles first in line, because Ted was right about stepping up the patrols. We might have more people who are up to no good coming into the valley.”
Almost everyone filed out; Mike was the only one who stayed behind. “That was a smart thing, shutting down the pumps.”
“I didn’t feel smart, I felt scared.”
“Right along with everyone else. You still did the smart thing.” Crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits to keep them warm, he stared out the window at the people still standing around in the parking lot. The patrol members were moving through the crowd, spreading the news about the gasoline. She watched them, saw excitement dawning at the prospect of a small taste of luxury, because that’s what the gasoline represented: heat, cleanliness, mobility, a brief respite from making do, and a means of swiftly increasing their woodpiles. Fire meant life.
“Bill Haney from over near the Cades Cove shortcut almost cut his finger off this morning, chopping wood. One of his neighbors is a retired veterinarian and he sewed it back as best he could; Bill should be all right, except for a stiff finger. A couple of cases of what might be flu are over on Little Round Top.”
They had no medical team. So far, medical care had been catch-as-catch-can, with the herbalists doing what they could, the fire department medic helping, as well as a couple of nurses. No one was organized, and she didn’t know if organization was needed.
“Flu? This early in the year?” That didn’t seem likely. If anything, they should be safer from flu this year. They’d had almost no contact with anyone from outside the valley, no one was touching contaminated cart handles in Walmart or Kroger.
Mike shrugged. “That’s what I heard. I kind of doubt it. Colds, yeah, but I’m not going over there to check.” He frowned as he looked out the window, and Sela turned to see what had caused the frown.
“What?”
“Ted’s talking to Lawrence Dietrich. I know you said don’t pick and choose, but I hate to see good gasoline going to a piece of