The Night Shift Tom Briggs woke up at seven in the morning. It was a Tuesday in November. The sky outside the gas station window was the color of dirty dishwater. He pulled his coat tighter and walked around to the back of the building, where he had a mattress stored in a shed that used to hold lawn mowers. He lay down on the mattress. It was damp, but it was shelter. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep was hard to come by when your stomach was making noises like a dying engine. At eight o'clock, Mary Ellen unlocked the front door of the gas station and came out the back with a paper bag. She set it on the little table outside the shed and went back inside to open for the day. Tom waited until he heard the cash register beep before he went out. He opened the bag. Inside was a sandwich--bread, maybe turkey, maybe ham, hard to tell--and an apple that was starting to go soft. He ate the sandwich in three bites and the apple in five. It was not a good meal. It was not a bad meal. It was a meal. At ten o'clock, Old Man Henderson pulled into the station in his pickup truck. He parked, got out, and went inside. Five minutes later, he came out with a bottle of beer and a cup of coffee. He sat on the bumper of his truck and drank the beer and looked at nothing in particular. "Morning, Tom," he said. "Morning," Tom said. "Cold one." "Yeah." Old Man Henderson finished his beer, got back in his truck, and drove away. Tom went back to the shed and lay down on the mattress. At noon, a car pulled in. A young man in a suit got out and asked for regular. Tom watched him from the shed window. The young man paid, got back in his car, and drove away. Tom went back to sleep. At one o'clock, Mary Ellen came out the back with a bowl. It was soup, or something that might have been soup. It was brown and lumpy and smelled like onions. She set it on the table and went back inside. Tom ate the soup. It was warm. It was salty. It was something. At two o'clock, a truck pulled in. The driver got out and bought diesel. He talked to Tom for a minute about the weather. The weather was cold. The weather would probably stay cold. The driver got back in his truck and drove away. At three o'clock, Tom woke up from a nap and went to the table. The bowl was empty. He licked the inside of it, which felt strange and a little shameful, and then he went back to the shed. At four o'clock, nobody came. Tom sat in the doorway of the shed and watched the cars and trucks pass on the highway. A man in a pickup truck slowed down and looked at Tom, then sped up. Tom understood. People didn't like seeing him. He was a reminder of something they didn't want to think about--that the difference between a man with a house and a man with a mattress was mostly luck and not much else. At five o'clock, Mary Ellen came out with a plate. It had two slices of pizza on it. Cold pizza, from the lunch rush. Tom ate the pizza. It was greasy and salty and good. At six o'clock, darkness came early. It was November, and the days were short. Tom lit a small candle he had found in the shed and sat in the doorway, watching the highway. Cars passed with their headlights on, streaks of light in the darkness. At seven o'clock, Old Man Henderson came by again. He didn't stop this time. He just drove past, and Tom waved, and Old Man Henderson waved back. At eight o'clock, Mary Ellen came out and sat on the steps for a minute. She didn't say anything. Tom didn't say anything. They just sat there in the dark, listening to the cars on the highway. "You okay?" she asked finally. "Yeah," Tom said. "Good." She went back inside. Tom stayed in the doorway until nine o'clock, when the last car had passed and the highway was quiet. Then he went into the shed and lay down on the mattress. He didn't sleep well. He dreamed of food, but not good food. Not roast beef or pizza or soup. He dreamed of a table that stretched forever, and on the table were plates of food, but every time he reached for a plate, it moved away from him. He reached and reached, and the plates kept moving, and he got hungrier and hungrier, and he woke up crying. It was morning. The sky was the color of dirty dishwater again. He got up, stretched, and walked to the table. Mary Ellen had left a bowl of something. It was oatmeal. He ate the oatmeal. It was warm and bland and exactly what he needed. At eight o'clock, Old Man Henderson pulled in. He got out and went inside. Five minutes later, he came out with a coffee and a donut. He sat on the bumper of his truck and ate the donut and drank the coffee and looked at nothing in particular. "Morning, Tom," he said. "Morning," Tom said. "Cold one." "Yeah." At ten o'clock, a car pulled in. A woman got out and asked for regular. Tom watched her from the shed window. She paid, got back in her car, and drove away. At noon, Mary Ellen came out with a bowl of soup. It was the same soup as yesterday, or maybe a different batch. It was brown and lumpy and smelled like onions. Tom ate it. At one o'clock, a truck pulled in. The driver bought diesel. He talked about the weather. The weather was cold. The driver drove away. At two o'clock, nobody came. Tom watched the highway. At three o'clock, he woke from a nap and found the bowl empty. He licked it. At four o'clock, a man in a pickup truck slowed down, looked at Tom, and sped up. At five o'clock, Mary Ellen came out with a plate. It had a sandwich on it. Bread, maybe ham, maybe turkey. Tom ate it. At six o'clock, darkness came. Tom sat in the doorway and watched the cars. At seven o'clock, Old Man Henderson came by. Didn't stop. Waved. Tom waved back. At eight o'clock, Mary Ellen came out and sat on the steps. Didn't say anything. Tom didn't say anything. They sat in the dark. "You okay?" she asked. "Yeah." "Good." She went inside. Tom stayed until nine. Then he went to the shed and lay down. He dreamed of food again. The table was still there, stretching forever. The plates were still moving. But tonight, he didn't reach for them. He just sat at the table and watched them move, and somehow that made the hunger a little easier to bear. He woke up. It was morning. The sky was the color of dirty dishwater. He got up, stretched, and walked to the table. Mary Ellen had left a bowl of oatmeal. He ate it. It was warm and bland and exactly what he needed. Then he sat in the doorway of the shed and waited for the next car to pull in. --- ## © 2026 - Authored by Z R ZHANG ( EL9507135 -- パスポート番号[ちゅうごく] 중국 여권 번호 Номер паспорта หมายเลขหนังสือเดินทาง Passnummer رقم جواز السفر CHN Passport) The aforementioned Author hereby grants to OXFORD INDUSTRIAL HOLDING GROUP (ASIA PACIFIC) CO., LIMITED （BRN74685111） all economic property rights, including but not limited to the rights of: reproduction, distribution, rental, exhibition, performance, communication to the public via information network, adaptation, compilation, commercial operation, authorization for third-party use, and rights enforcement. Such grant is exclusive and irrevocable. The term of such rights shall be 49 years from the date of publication. To contact author， please email to datatorent@yeah.net