Martin Fischer slouched deeper into the cracked vinyl chair, breath fogging the air in front of his face, fingers numb, booth freezing, night stretching forever like some endless, boring video he couldn't skip. Outside, snow piled against the windows, fat flakes falling, falling, falling without stopping, turning the highway into a stupid white blur no one could drive on anyway.

  "This sucks. So freaking much."

  His voice echoed in the empty booth, bouncing off cold metal walls that reflected nothing but his own misery back at him. Twenty-six years old and stuck in this frozen dump of a highway stop because his idiot roommate Kyle couldn't cover his half of rent again, forcing Martin to grab the first night job available, which ended up being this prison cube of boredom.

  The thermometer on the wall read 29 degrees. Inside the booth. Probably broke like everything else in this place.

  Martin pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb automatically swiping to his social feed, waiting, waiting, waiting for content to load.

  Nothing happened. Screen staying blank except for that stupid spinning circle.

  "What the hell?"

  He tried again. Opened browser. Spinning. Tried game app. Loading screen frozen at 10%. Tried messaging. No connection.

  The realization crawled through his brain with irritating slowness. No signal. No internet. No Wi-Fi.

  "No freaking way."

  Martin stood up, chair scraping against floor with satisfying screech, and held his phone toward the ceiling like some offering to digital gods, waving it around, searching for even one bar of service, arm getting tired, shoulder aching, face scrunching with growing rage.

  Nothing. Not a single bar. Not a hint of Wi-Fi. Not a breath of data.

  "SERIOUSLY?!"

  His shout echoed around the booth, bouncing off metal walls and frosted windows, returning to his ears with pathetic weakness. Outside, snow continued falling, indifferent to his suffering, piling higher against the door like some frozen prison wall.

  The manager—that balding loser Todd with his stupid coffee breath—had said nothing about no internet. Had promised easy money for sitting on his ass all night. Had specifically mentioned Martin could bring his phone, could mess around online between customers, could basically get paid to do nothing.

  Martin threw himself back into the chair, which creaked under his weight, threatening to break like everything else in this frozen hellhole. Eight hours stretched ahead of him, eight hours of nothing, nothing, nothing to do but stare at walls and count snowflakes and slowly freeze to death while his brain melted from boredom.

  "Screw this."

  He tried restarting his phone. Maybe some glitch or whatever. Tech always had glitches. Thirty seconds of black screen, then Apple logo, then home screen, then...

  No service. No bars. No internet.

  Martin groaned, head falling back, eyes staring at water-stained ceiling tiles that probably leaked when it wasn't cold enough to freeze everything solid. The booth was small, smaller, smallest—just a box on the highway with counter facing window, ancient cash register with actual buttons instead of touchscreen, rack of cigarettes, cooler humming in corner, and sad little space heater that pumped out warmth about as effectively as a dying candle.

  First day on the job. First night of who knows how many. Already wanting to quit.

  Time dragged, dragged, dragged without internet to kill it. Martin checked his phone battery—still at 89% with nothing to drain it—then his actual watch—only twenty minutes passed since his shift started—then back to staring at snow falling through window glass smudged with fingerprints from a thousand strangers.

  Wind howled outside, rattling the booth's thin walls, sending freezing drafts through cracks in the foundation. The space heater clicked, clicked, clicked as it struggled against winter's assault, losing the battle one degree at a time. Martin pulled his jacket tighter, black leather offering style but little warmth, fashion over function as always.

  Where were all the customers? Traffic booth should have traffic. People stopping for gas or cigarettes or whatever. Some human interaction to break up the endless boredom crushing his skull with each tick of the wall clock.

  His fingers itched to scroll. Eyes ached for screen light. Brain screamed for content, for memes, for videos, for anything other than empty white landscape and silent booth.

  Finally—finally—headlights appeared through the snow curtain, cutting bright paths through darkness as some ancient pickup truck pulled beside the booth. Driver rolling down window with mechanical crank, cold air rushing in, man's face appearing through gap—gray beard, wrinkled skin, trucker hat with logo Martin didn't bother reading.

  "Evening," the man said, voice gruff against the wind's howl. "Pack of Marlboro Reds and twenty on pump three."

  Customer. Actual human customer. Something happening in this frozen nightmare.

  Martin stared for too long, brain slow from boredom, before realizing he needed to do something, needed to work, needed to act like the cashier he technically was despite having zero training and less interest.

  "Uh, yeah, sure. Marlboros."

  He turned to the cigarette rack, eyes scanning rows of identical-looking packages, all so boring and similar, nothing making sense, nothing organized in any way that his brain could process.

  "Which ones are the Reds?" he asked, not bothering to hide irritation at having to actually work during his work shift.

  The customer sighed, breath fogging between them. "Red pack. Right there in front of you. Middle row, third from left."

  "Whatever. Could just point instead of making me guess."

  Martin grabbed the pack, tossed it on the counter with little care, then stared at the ancient register like it was some alien technology from a boring documentary no one watched.

  "Twenty on three," the customer repeated, more slowly this time, like talking to a child.

  "I heard you the first time," Martin snapped, fingers hovering over register keys. "Just trying to figure out this stupid machine."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  The customer's expression darkened beneath his trucker cap. "Son, it's a basic gas pump authorization. Button for the pump number, then enter the amount."

  "I know that," Martin lied, stabbing at buttons randomly until something beeped. "There. Twenty dollars. Pump three. Whatever."

  The man handed over cash, crisp twenty-dollar bill that Martin crumpled into the register drawer without counting change, without offering receipt, without saying thank you because why bother with fake politeness when they both knew this whole interaction meant nothing.

  "Have a good night," the customer said anyway, voice flat with forced civility.

  "Yeah, you too," Martin replied, already turning away, already bored again, already missing his phone's endless scroll of content that meant nothing but filled the empty spaces between breathing and sleeping.

  The truck pulled away, taillights disappearing into snow that fell, fell, fell without purpose or end. Silence returned to the booth, broken only by space heater's pathetic clicking and wind's constant howl against metal walls.

  Martin slumped into the chair again, pulled out his useless phone, checked battery—still 89%—and stared at no-service icon like it might change if he glared hard enough.

  The night stretched ahead, long and cold and empty.

  Hours dragged, dragged, dragged by with nothing but occasional customers breaking monotony. Old woman wanting directions Martin couldn't give because he didn't know or care where anything was. Businessman buying coffee Martin made wrong because nobody showed him how to work the ancient machine with too many buttons and levers. Teenager paying for gas with pile of singles and coins Martin had to count twice because math wasn't his thing, never had been his thing, one reason among many he'd dropped out senior year.

  Each interaction worse than last. Each customer more annoying. Each minute stretching longer as boredom crushed his skull between invisible, freezing hands.

  Without warning, booth door crashed open, wind howling through gap, snow swirling inside like uninvited guests, cold biting Martin's face with vicious teeth. Todd the manager stood framed in doorway, snow caking his boots, jacket zipped to chin, expression sour beneath knit cap pulled low.

  "Fischer! How's first shift going?" he asked, stamping snow onto already-wet floor.

  Martin barely looked up from his dead phone. "It sucks. There's no internet."

  Todd closed the door, sealing cold outside again, though temperature barely changed given how useless the space heater proved against winter's assault.

  "Yeah, service has been out for weeks. Storm knocked something down, company keeps promising to fix it."

  Martin's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Weeks? And you didn't think to mention that when you hired me?"

  Todd shrugged, dropping stack of papers on counter without explanation. "Figured you knew. Everyone knows service is spotty out here."

  "Spotty? It's not spotty, it's dead. Completely dead. How am I supposed to work eight hours with no internet?"

  The manager's eyebrows rose slightly. "Work? You're supposed to be working, not browsing the internet."

  "But there's nothing to do between customers!" Martin protested, voice rising to whine that would embarrass him if he had capacity for shame. "You said I could use my phone during downtime!"

  "Use it, sure. Take pictures, play offline games, whatever. Just handle the customers when they come in." Todd gestured toward the register. "Speaking of which, you're twenty dollars short after your first three hours. Want to explain that?"

  Martin's face heated despite the cold. "I don't know. Nobody trained me on that dinosaur register."

  "It's basic math, Fischer. They give you money, you give change."

  "Whatever. Maybe I forgot to ring something up."

  Todd sighed, breath fogging between them. "Look, I'm not gonna fire you over twenty bucks, but pay attention. And don't expect internet anytime soon. Called the company again yesterday, they say it's the tower or something. Might be spring before they fix it."

  "Spring?!" Martin's voice cracked embarrassingly. "That's months away!"

  "Welcome to rural highway service," Todd said, already turning toward door, already dismissing Martin's crisis as unimportant. "Oh, and don't forget, your shift includes keeping the entrance cleared. Shovel's in the closet. Salt too."

  Martin stared, brain processing words that made no sense together. "Shovel? What shovel?"

  "For the snow, Fischer. Can't have customers slipping and suing us. Clear the walkway every couple hours depending on accumulation."

  The door opened, cold rushing in again, Todd's departing words barely audible over wind's howl: "Night shift, easy money, just like you wanted!"

  Then gone, door closing, silence returning except for Martin's incredulous breathing and space heater's pathetic clicking against cold that seeped through every crack, every seam, every microscopic gap in booth's cheap construction.

  "Shovel snow? Are you kidding me?"

  Nobody answered because nobody was there, just Martin alone in frozen box on highway nowhere, expected to move snow with actual physical labor like some peasant in history documentary nobody watched.

  He kicked the counter, pain shooting through foot encased in fashion sneakers not meant for winter, cursing loud enough to hear echo against metal walls.

  Martin Fischer, twenty-six years old, high school dropout with better things to do than freeze in traffic booth with no internet, no entertainment, nothing but boring customers and actual physical labor to look forward to. Not what he signed up for. Not what Todd promised. Not fair at all.

  Phone useless in his pocket. Social media withdrawal already itching under skin. Friends partying without him while he sat in frozen prison with nothing, nothing, nothing to do but count snowflakes and shovel more snow and slowly lose mind to boredom's relentless assault.

  Outside, snow continued falling, piling higher against booth windows, transforming highway into blank white canvas no one would drive on, no one would see, no one would remember. Inside, Martin slouched deeper into uncomfortable chair, exhaling fog that lingered too long in cold air, watching clock tick with painful slowness toward shift end still hours away.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he'd brought no food because Todd said he could order delivery, could get pizza or whatever, could sustain himself like normal human being instead of starving in frozen wasteland with no services, no options, no nothing.

  The closet door mocked him from corner, knowing snow shovel waited inside, knowing physical labor lurked in metal handle and plastic blade, knowing Martin would have to go outside into cold, into wind, into falling snow to clear path nobody would use anyway.

  "This sucks so much."

  His voice sounded wrong in empty booth, too loud yet too small, swallowed by oppressive silence that stretched between clock ticks like physical weight pressing against eardrums. No music without streaming. No videos without data. No human voices without customers who barely spoke anyway.

  Headlights appeared through snow curtain again, weaker this time, older car pulling up with engine coughing against cold, against winter, against dying battery that probably matched its owner's bank account.

  Middle-aged woman rolled down window, face lined with exhaustion, eyes barely meeting Martin's as she spoke: "Ten dollars on pump one, please."

  Martin stared through window glass smudged with fingerprints and frost, brain processing request with glacial slowness because boredom had numbed all neurons capable of human interaction.

  "Ten on one," he repeated, fingers finding correct buttons through muscle memory developing despite his resistance. "Cash or card?"

  "Cash," she replied, holding out crumpled ten-dollar bill that had seen better days, probably passed through hundred hands before reaching Martin's with all their germs and filth and history he didn't want to think about.

  He took the money, authorized the pump, handed over receipt the woman probably didn't need or want but took anyway with mumbled thanks that meant nothing to either of them.

  Transaction complete. Human interaction finished. Silence returning as car pulled toward pump, as woman stepped into cold to fill tank with gas that cost more than it should, as Martin returned to staring at useless phone that offered nothing but black screen reflecting his own bored expression back at him.

  The closet continued its silent mockery from corner. The clock continued its endless ticking from wall. The snow continued its relentless falling from sky that stretched forever in all directions, covering everything in blank whiteness that matched the empty canvas of Martin's thoughts.

  "I hate this job."

  No one heard or cared, least of all booth walls that had probably absorbed same complaint from hundred cashiers before him, all trapped in same frozen box, all staring at same highway stretching toward horizon no one ever reached.

  Martin Fischer, twenty-six years old, high school dropout, first night of job he already hated, freezing in booth with no internet, no entertainment, nothing but long hours of nothing stretching ahead like highway buried under snow no one would drive on anyway.

  The space heater clicked, clicked, clicked against cold it couldn't defeat.

  The wind howled, howled, howled against walls too thin to keep it out.

  The snow fell, fell, fell without purpose, without end, without mercy.

  And Martin waited for something, anything to happen in the endless, frozen night.