I dreamed

The town’s only bowser is in the hallway and it’s still got its hose coiled, nozzle in the holster, waiting for someone with a car. I squeeze the trigger. Nothing comes out, but the little dial spins anyway, counting: 993, then 457, then down past where numbers go.

It’s been counting for a while. I can tell because the dial is worn smooth in one spot where a thumb would sit, and I don’t have a thumb, so somebody stayed here through the whole thing. Five thousand four hundred of something, delivered one click at a time.

I ask it what it’s measuring. It says it stopped carrying fuel years ago, costs being what they are, and now it just counts and that’s honest work.

The dial keeps going after I let go of the trigger.