by Torn MacAlester
After filling the tank, Nelson hurried inside. After removing his helmet, he saw Max look at him strangely.
“What’s wrong, Nelson?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, feeling his face tugging with a grin. “Tell me, has there ever been an old prospector called Morgan around the station?”
“Morgan,” her hand caressed her chin as she thought, “No. I can’t think of a Morgan.”
“Think, Max. It could have been years ago. Back when the station was new.”
“What are you talking about, Nelson?”
“Is there an old prospector called Morgan?” he pressed. “He may not have been here in years.”
“I can’t think of one.” Her expression changed, and her eyes opened wide. “You can’t mean Morgan Johnson.”