He Pulled Into a Service Area at 2 A.M. What a Truck Driver Told Him Changed the Night.

The Third Tree at the Service Area

Lin Tao had been driving for five hours. The white dashes on the road blurred. He blinked. They stayed blurred.

His father was in a hospital in Wuhan. Lin Tao had promised to be there by morning. The promise pressed against his ribs. He kept driving.

The navigation screen said the next service area was eighteen kilometers away. A parking area was closer. Six kilometers. He passed one the week before: one toilet, a dripping tap, a single bulb over the door. He had not stopped. He had told himself he would stop at the next service area.

At the six-kilometer mark, a blue sign appeared. Parking Area. 500 m. He slowed. His hands shook on the wheel. He could pull in, close his eyes for twenty minutes, and keep going. The dark rectangle beside the highway came back to him. He pressed the accelerator.

The service area appeared twenty minutes later. A wide asphalt lot sat under tall sodium lights. A convenience store glowed. A row of trucks parked shoulder to shoulder. Diesel and fried noodles hung in the air. Lin Tao drove past the truck lot, past the fuel pumps, past the toilets. He found a spot near the store and parked with his nose out.

He turned off the engine. The silence was huge. He checked his phone. No messages from the hospital. Overstay fees. Drivers slept in service areas and got charged extra at the exit. An officer at the toll booth. Why did the trip take nine hours instead of six? He reached for the key.

A tap on the window made him jump. An old truck driver stood outside with a thermos. Lin Tao cracked the window.

“Staying?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” Lin Tao said. “I’m tired. But the overstay fee. What if they charge me?”

The truck driver laughed. Dry. Rattling. “You’re in a small car. You’re not swapping cards. You’re not covering your plate. You’re sleeping. They don’t care.”

“But the time. Nine hours. The trip should take six.”

“The gantries see you,” the man said. “Every few kilometers, a camera. It knows you left the main road and came in here. It knows you didn’t make a U-turn. The toll is calculated by segments. You’re not cheating. You’re resting.”

Lin Tao looked at the convenience store. A woman in a red vest mopped the floor. The light was bright and ordinary.

“I’m Zhou,” the truck driver said. “I sleep here twice a week. The truck lot is full tonight, so I’m parked over there. You chose a good spot. Under the camera. Near the store. That’s smart.”

“What about the parking areas?” Lin Tao asked. “The ones without lights?”

Zhou shook his head. “Those are for pissing and leaving. You don’t sleep there. No cameras. No guards. I’ve seen guys wake up to a broken window. You’re better off here.”

Lin Tao nodded. The stone in his chest moved a little.

“If you want a shower,” Zhou said, “there’s a Driver’s Home behind the restaurant. Ten yuan. Hot water. Clean towels. Better than sleeping in your seat.”

“I’ll sleep in the car.”

“Crack a window,” Zhou said. “Even if it’s cold. Lock the doors. Don’t leave your phone on the dashboard.”

He walked away, thermos swinging. Lin Tao watched him climb into a tall blue truck. The cab went dark.

Lin Tao locked the doors. He pulled a sunshade across the windshield. He left the window open a finger’s width. He put his wallet and phone under his thigh. He reclined the seat. The ceiling of the car was gray and close.

His father used to drive all night to get to a job site. He came home smelling of cigarettes and cold air. Lin Tao had asked once why. His father said nothing. Now Lin Tao did the same thing.

He closed his eyes.

Trucks came and went. A child cried near the toilets. The store door chimed every few minutes. He slept in pieces. He woke at 5:40 a.m. with a dry mouth and a stiff neck. The sky was the color of wet slate. The service area lights were still on.

He walked to the store and bought a cup of coffee. The woman in the red vest was still there. Or maybe she was a different woman. He could not tell. He drank the coffee by the window and watched the truck lot. Zhou’s truck was gone.

Lin Tao got back in his car. He started the engine, drove to the exit ramp, and merged onto the highway. The road was empty and gray. He passed under a gantry. The camera blinked. He kept driving.

At the toll booth, the barrier lifted. The screen showed his fee. It was the same as if he had driven straight through. No extra charge. No questions. The woman in the booth handed him a receipt. He took it and drove on.

He reached the hospital at 8:15 a.m. His father was awake, sitting up in bed, watching the news. He looked smaller than the last time Lin Tao saw him.

“You’re late,” his father said.

“I stopped at a service area,” Lin Tao said. “I slept for a few hours.”

His father looked at him. His mouth opened. Then closed. He nodded.

“Good,” he said. “You should have slept longer.”

Lin Tao sat in the chair beside the bed. The stone in his chest was gone. He pulled the receipt from his pocket and smoothed it on his knee. A piece of paper. He folded it and put it back in his pocket.

Outside the window, a bus pulled into the stop. A nurse walked past the door. Lin Tao watched his father watch the news. He stayed in the chair.

This is a work of fiction.