Gabbie never heard of a 7-12 store, so she pulled in the lot populated with a single rust-pocked El Camino with mismatched tires.

“Hmm, no gas pumps,” she mumbled.

She couldn’t make out anything inside. However, she was struck by the sheer quantity piled ceiling high aisle after aisle. It was like a warehouse had exploded as gas masks competed with canned beer, baby clothes, oil drums, and pumpkins.

Stunned, Gabbie spotted a glass booth. As she neared, a handwritten sign read “Take a number.” She pulled out “695” just as a mechanized voice boomed “Now serving number 12, number 12.”