At half-past six in the morning, the sky was still a hazy gray. Along Route 76 on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, the illuminated sign of an old gas station flickered in the wind. Its glowing red digital numbers prominently displayed the new price: $3.09/gallon. Mike clearly remembered that when he got off work last night, this number had been 2.89.
Mike parked his rusted Ford F-150 in front of the gas pump. He pushed the door open, habitually glancing up at the price board, and couldn't help but curse under his breath. "Damn it... It's already over three bucks."
There were only three cars lined up at one of the pumps—not a particularly long queue. However, in a typically quiet Rust Belt town around Pittsburgh like this one, seeing a line at a gas station at six-thirty in the morning inherently reeked of an unusual anxiety.
