The night I decided to become a better person was the same night I learned how cheaply a human life could be priced, especially my own.

It was my first night working at the QuikStop, and the strange manager, Bernard, was showing me the ropes. He smelled of sweat and cheap whiskey and, from what I could tell, he was already drunk.

“Now, this here job gets quite boring on the overnight,” he said, slurring his words, “So you’ll want to bring some readin’ material with ya.”

“Yeah, sure,” I responded.

“I’m guessin’ ya didn’t bring anything tonight, so I’ll loan ya some.” Bernard stumbled backward for a moment and almost fell over. “Here, let’s head to the back where I keep my stash.”

The back room was smaller than I expected and smelled like coffee microwaved too many times. Bernard flicked on a bare bulb.

Against the wall sat a milk crate filled with paperback books, all of them swollen and warped, like they’d been rescued from a flood.

“Take yer pick,” Bernard said proudly. “Got classics.”

I squinted at the spines. Chicken Soup for the Shoplifter’s Soul. A waterlogged Bible missing Genesis. A romance novel titled Taken at the Pump. And a thick spiral notebook labeled, in black Sharpie: INCIDENT LOG.

“What’s that one?” I asked.

Bernard froze. “That,” he said slowly, “is not readin’ material.”

He swayed, reconsidered, then shrugged. “Actually, hell with it. You’re on the clock now. Might as well know.”

He handed me the notebook. The cover was greasy, the pages yellowed and soft. I opened it.

INCIDENT #417: 2:13 a.m. Man claims to be God. Bought two scratch-offs and a Slim Jim. Not God.

INCIDENT #612: Power outage. Something breathing in the soda aisle. Didn’t investigate.

INCIDENT #901: Customer died but finished paying first. Very polite.

I looked up. “Is this real?”

Bernard nodded. “Corporate makes us log everything. Liability reasons.”

“Something breathing?”

“Yeah. Happens.”

He clapped me on the shoulder, missing slightly and hitting my neck instead. It kind of hurt. “Don’t worry. Most nights are quiet.”

That was when the bell over the front door rang.

Bernard stiffened. “Ah. That’ll be the pricing issue.”

We walked back out to the counter. Standing there was a man in a business suit that had once looked expensive, now soaked through and dripping onto the linoleum. His skin had the gray sheen of old leftovers. One eye hung a little lower than the other.

“I’d like to return this,” the man said, placing a candy bar on the counter.

Bernard sighed. “Sir, store policy …”

The man leaned forward. “I died in aisle four.”

Bernard rubbed his temples. “Did you have a receipt?”

The man smiled, and a bit of him melted off onto the counter. “No.”

Bernard turned to me. “This is where customer service gets tricky.”

“What do I do?” I whispered.

“You upsell,” Bernard said. “Always upsell.”

He leaned toward the man. “We can’t do refunds on posthumous purchases, but I can offer you a free coffee.”

The man considered this. “Is it fresh?”

Bernard glanced at the pot, which had been burning since before I arrived. “Define fresh.”

The man sighed. “Never mind.”

He faded then, dissolving into a damp outline on the floor, leaving the candy bar behind. Bernard rang it up.

“Waste,” he muttered. “Inventory loss.”

I stared at the dark stain where the man had been. “He just vanished.”

“Yeah,” Bernard said. “Happens.”

“What about me?” I asked. “What if something happens to me?”

Bernard finally looked at me. There was something like sympathy in his eyes.

“Oh, kid,” he said. “If you die here, corporate gives your family a fruit basket. Unless it’s a violent death. Then it’s store credit.”

“How much?”

Bernard punched a few keys on the register, checking. “Let’s see … overnight associate … probationary period …” He winced. “Seventy-five bucks.”

I laughed, a thin, hysterical sound. “That’s it?”

Bernard shrugged. “Life’s cheaper after midnight.”

The bell rang again. Another customer. Bernard straightened his name tag.

“Welcome to QuikStop,” he said cheerfully. “Let us know if you need anything.”

I picked up the incident log, uncapped a pen, and wrote my name on the next blank line, just in case.

If I were going to become a better person, I figured, I’d start by staying alive until morning.

The End