In the gas station, he stalked back and forth between the aisles, his back straight, an important man making a decision, letting his fingers rest on bags of potato chips that he knew he’d never had a taste for. He stopped only after the clerk, a boy in dark frames, sent him a sidelong glance.
“You got gas on two?” the clerk asked.
“Yeah,” Job said, in his best imitation of an American.
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