"It was like having angels," I told her.
The sun began to set. The sky grew bright with color. We oohed and ahhed. We drove by towns where pumps were closed. We continued oohing and ahhing. We did not talk about the talk on trust.An antelope leapt into the road all copper and dreamy under the setting sun. We swerved out of the way. Freaked that little thing out. She jumped back fast.
When we talked to 911, the lady said, “Sorry but we can’t help you until you’re stopped.” He slowed down to thirty-five miles an hour. Shifted the car into neutral, coasted.Under my breath, I sang a song to God. I considered faith and trust. Made a choice. He went silent, said, “Watch the road markers, Sugar.” The cell coverage went dead.
By the time we were forty miles from Benton, our gas tank had been empty for five miles. We made a choice to go forward any way. Crawled the hills like snails. Got so high up the ride down shot the Jetta back up the next mountain. At the crest of one peak he said, “7,125? That’s 2000 feet higher than Denver.
I whispered, “Thank you, God.” And then the car flew down the mountain at 85 miles an hour. He hit the breaks to manage the curves. We drove 45 miles on that empty gas tank—me singing all the way, he silent and holding my hand. The Jetta hungry.
At Benton, we rolled into a sleepy town where everyone had gone to bed, save a building next to the gas station.
“The lights are on,” I said. “Ask them to open up the pumps.”
But he rolled the car next to the newfangled gas pumps.
“Give me your card,” he said.
We slipped the card into the pump. We held our breath. And when the lights went on we filled the tank and danced. The angels still with us.