After that, I went nowhere. Thursday, Friday, Saturday—I remained indoors. Mowed the lawn, read, caught some baseball. Ordinary days.
Sunday morning I climbed into the cab to head for services, glancing at the fuel indicator out of pure muscle memory.
The needle hovered just beneath the half-full mark.
I stared at it for a moment, completely perplexed. That defied logic. I had barely traveled anywhere. Ten minutes to Walt’s place and ten back amounts to nothing; that truck could run two weeks on a full reservoir given my minimal mileage.
I tapped the dial like a fool, hoping physical impact might correct it. The needle stayed put.
I figured my memory was slipping. It happens. My father grew forgetful near the end, and I have monitored myself for similar warning signs, secretly terrified, much like scanning a ceiling for hidden roof leaks.
Consequently, I dismissed it. I convinced myself I must have driven more than I realized.
Yet it happened again.
The next Tuesday I filled up. Same station. Same routine. This time, I tracked every single movement rigorously, jotting down each trip on a notepad kept near the phone: a run to the pharmacy, a grocery store run. That was the extent of it.
By Saturday, the tank registered near empty.
Sitting in the driveway with the engine idling and the ledger resting on my knees, I recalculated the math three times over.
Impossible. There was zero probability I had consumed that volume of fuel.
