It was late. I was leaving South Carolina, where I’d just made a speech in Columbia. I had an all-night drive ahead of me.

I stopped at a gas station off the side of the road. Middle of Nowhere. There was nothing around for miles except a few shotgun houses with couches on front porches. The frogs were singing a nightly chorus.

I walked inside. The bell over the door rang. I was buying vittles for the ride home.

I tossed a few bags of Chili Cheese Fritos on the counter.

The girl behind the register was pretty. She was tatted up. Rings in her nose. Rings on her lip. Her hair was a shade of purple not found in nature. Her name was Angela. I know this because her name-tag said so.

She was crying. She used a hand to mop the tears from her face. She approached the cash register. She scanned my bags of Fritos and said, “I love these chips.”

“Me too,” I replied.

“I could freakin’ live on these things,” she said, sniffing her nose.

“Some of us do.”

Her makeup was smeared.

I knew it was none of my business, but I just had to ask. “Ma’am, are you OK?”

She smiled. It was a pretty smile. She could have been a homecoming queen. A very purple homecoming queen.

“Can I show you something?” she asked.

We were alone in the old convenience store. Nothing but the hum of old coolers working overtime. This was not the question I expected her to ask.

“You want to show me something?” I said.

She nodded. “That OK?”

“Depends,” I said. “Is it something that will send either of us to prison?”

She reached into her pocket and showed me a picture on her phone. “Do you know what this is?” she said.

“Yes. It’s a phone.”

She smiled. “No, on the screen.”

The girl pinch-zoomed on her device display. It was a black-and-white image. In the center of the image was a small blob. I’m not the sharpest stick in the mud, but I know an ultrasound image when I see one.

“I’m going to be a mom,” she said.

The girl started crying again.

“Congratulations.”

She thanked me and put my Fritos in a plastic bag, then handed me the receipt.

“I just turned my life around,” she said. “I live at a women’s home, I’ve been sober for two years and three months, and I’ve been dating this really good guy.

“Doctors said I couldn’t have a kid, because of all I been through, but I’ve wanted a baby so bad, I’ve been praying for one, and I guess someone hears my prayers.”

“I guess they do.”

I reached into my plastic bag and placed a bag of Fritos on the counter. Then pushed it toward her.

“What’s this?” she said.

“Your first baby shower.”

She wiped the tears and laughed. “I’m going to be a mother. I can’t (deleted) believe it. I haven’t told anyone yet. Not even my own mom. Oh, God, I’m so happy I could bust. You’re the first person I’ve told, and I don’t even know you.”

Your secret is safe with me, Angela.

— Sean Dietrich is a columnist, and novelist, known for his commentary on life in the American South.