<span style="font-weight: bold"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #FF80BF"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">Mary Stevens</span></span></div></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://ak1.polyvoreimg.com/cgi/img-thing/size/l/tid/62875643.jpg">[ img ]</a></div><br/><br/>If there was any one thing that Mary Stevens hated more, it was having to open for the gas station. Her boss, James Turnbull, was no where to be found--which was no surprise. The man owned the place, so he could set his own hours. She stood behind the counter surrounded by racks of bubble gum and cigarettes. She was at least granted a stool to sit on, which was great because she could prop her head up as she leaned on the counter. The smell of coffee was in the air as the percolator did its job and her mouth watered. She couldn't wait until it was done brewing--she was tired as hell and needed some sort of pick-me-up.<br/><br/>Just as she began to have day dreams about the kind of flavored cream she would put in her cup, the bell above the door chimed and a customer walked in.<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #FF80BF"> 'Oh boy, here they come...' </span></span>she thought with dread. It was a group of old men who came in every morning. They would buy their coffee and some smokes, then stand outside for a good three hours just shootin' the shit. Sometimes their conversations were interesting, most of the time though they were about who had died of a heart attack, and did you hear good ol' boy had to get his tires replaced?<br/><br/><span style="color: #40BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">"Hey there, Mary. How's your mornin' goin?" </span></span>a scraggly bearded man asked her as he placed his items on the counter.<span style="color: #FF80BF"> "Oh ya know. Same ol', same ol'. How's your wife, Tim?"</span>Mary asked politely as she reached for the pack of smokes that Tim always bought.<span style="color: #40BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic"> "She's just beside herself. Ya know that Sarah is still missin' right?"</span></span>he asked as he handed her money, she gave a sad nod,<span style="color: #FF80BF"> "Yeah...goin' on two months now..."</span>Mary replied. Sarah had been a good friend of hers and Tim's wife was Sarah's aunt. Tim likely cared about Sarah's disappearance, too, but only because how much it bothered his wife.<span style="color: #40BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">"Yup...the world's a crazy place, but hopefully the lord will see to it she comes home..."</span></span>with that, he left the store, the bell tinkling after him.<br/><br/>Mary's already gloomy mood dropped a few more notches. She had stopped sitting by the phone, had stopped watching the news--she knew that Sarah wasn't coming home. She could feel it in her gut. She wished that the police were more proactive in their search, and as much as Deputy Phil had tried to reassure her they were doing the best they could, she couldn't help but feel they needed to do better. She had stopped calling the sheriff weeks ago for updates---there were never any to be had.