All sitting empty.
Then the bank listed the property for sale.
I read the notice three times.
The lender was accepting sealed bids.
The property included the station building, fuel infrastructure, and specified equipment.
Interested buyers would have to complete their own inspections and satisfy the applicable operating requirements.
I knew the site.
I knew the tanks had been installed properly.
I knew the inspection history.
And I knew the station could operate profitably if the financial structure made sense.
So I went to the bank where I’d held my checking account since I was sixteen.
The loan officer was Mr. Pospisil.
He was nearly seventy and wore sweater vests even when the weather was warm.
He’d known me since I was a teenager depositing my first paychecks.
I arrived carrying three binders.
He looked toward them.
“What’s all this?”
“Station records.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I opened the first binder.
Fuel orders.
Monthly sales.
Payroll.
Equipment maintenance.
Then the second.
Tank inspections.
Environmental documentation.
Permits.
Service history.
Then the third.
Financial statements I’d prepared over twelve years.
Mr. Pospisil studied the pages.
He turned them slowly.
For a long time, he didn’t speak.
Finally, he looked up.
“Who prepared all this?”
“I did.”
“Every year?”
I nodded.
“Since I was twenty.”
He closed the binder.
Then rested his hand on top of it.
“Well, Ian, I think you understand this business better than most people trying to buy one.”
For the first time in months, I felt hopeful.
We discussed the purchase.
My savings.
The down payment.
The operating requirements.
The risks involved in taking over a fuel station.
There were no shortcuts.
The financing would have to make sense.
The site needed appropriate environmental and equipment reviews.
And the purchase agreement would need to specify exactly which assets were included.
I hired professionals to help me complete the necessary due diligence.
Then I submitted my bid.
Two hundred forty thousand dollars.
I had thirty-six thousand dollars available for the down payment.
The remaining amount would be financed through a small-business loan.
The bank reviewed the bids.
Mine won.
I closed on June thirteenth.
The deed and asset-transfer documents were recorded and completed through the appropriate process.
The lender confirmed its disposition of the property and the status of the former secured obligations.
Dad no longer owned the station.
Chance had never owned it.
I owned it.
With a loan to repay, taxes to manage, equipment to maintain, and every operational responsibility resting on my shoulders.
I stood inside the empty building after closing.
The shelves were dusty.
The office smelled faintly of old paper.
A few faded photographs still hung behind the counter.
For a moment, I remembered being sixteen, sweeping the floor while Dad laughed with customers.
I walked toward the coffee machine.
Filled it.
Started a pot.
Then stood listening to the familiar bubbling sound.
When it finished, I poured a cup.
Took one sip.
And laughed.
Still terrible.
I put a NOW HIRING sign in the front window.
Then began reopening the business.
I didn’t tell my family immediately.
That was a mistake, and I’ll admit it.
I wasn’t trying to hide the purchase forever.
I simply didn’t know how to tell Dad that I’d bought the business he’d lost.
I wanted him to understand I hadn’t been circling the station waiting for him to fail.
I’d tried to help.
I’d watched the bank take it.
Then I’d purchased it through the same process available to any qualified buyer.
I planned to tell him at the Fourth of July cookout.
The county newspaper told him first.
It printed property transfers in a small section near the back.
My name appeared beside the station address.
Chance saw it.
And brought the paper to the family barbecue.
Dad was grilling burgers.
Mom had made macaroni salad.
Aunt Wanita and several cousins were sitting beneath the shade tree.
Children were playing near the picnic table.
Chance walked through the side gate holding the newspaper.
His expression was already angry.
He pointed toward me.
“You want to explain this?”
I stood.
“Chance—”
He shook the paper open.
Then read the property transfer aloud.
My name.
The address.
The purchase price.
Two hundred forty thousand dollars.
Mom stared.
For a moment, she looked confused.
Then she began crying.
“That station was promised to your brother.”
Chance shoved the paper toward Dad.
Then knocked over the cooler beside the table in his frustration.
Ice scattered across the grass.
Several soda cans rolled beneath the chairs.
An orange can bumped against Mom’s tomato cage.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then I bent down and began collecting the cans.
Not because I wasn’t angry.
Because I didn’t want the children stepping on them, and because someone needed to clean up the mess.
Chance stared.
“You’re just going to stand there?”
I straightened.
“No. I’m going back to work.”
Mom wiped her eyes.
“How could you do this to your brother?”
I looked toward her.
“Mom, I bought the station from the bank.”
She shook her head.
“It was supposed to be Chance’s.”
I took a breath.
“Then Chance should’ve made an offer when it was for sale.”
He stared.
For a moment, he seemed unable to answer.
Then I nodded toward the road.
“Tell him we’re hiring.”
Nobody laughed.
Dad turned back toward the grill.
One burger had been cooking too long.
He moved it to the cooler side without looking at anyone.
I thanked Mom for dinner.
Then walked toward my truck.
Dad followed me to the gate.
For a moment, we stood quietly.
I looked toward him.
“I was going to tell you today.”
He nodded slowly.
“I believe you.”
My throat tightened.
“I didn’t buy it to hurt you.”
Dad looked toward the backyard.
Then whispered.
“Well. It’s yours now.”
He turned and walked back toward the grill.