Passing through Christmas, Michigan, I nearly missed the tall, thin man standing on the berm of the two-lane state highway. He held a piece of cardboard “Need Gas” and hugged a little girl. I drove a quarter mile beyond, then made a U-turn. The man ran across the casino’s parking lot to fetch a pick-up truck hitched to a decrepit camper. A young woman sat in the front seat, soda in hand, the girl nestled beside her. “How much?” he asked. “Fill ‘er up,” I said. He was surprised and grateful; so was I when I got the $125 bill.
Catherine Albrecht is a retired historian and part-time writer.