“That will be $9.80,” I said, as I glanced at the driver’s ticket. The toll booth felt like a refrigerator tonight, and I shivered.
The driver cursed as he unfastened his seatbelt and fumbled in his pocket for change.
“Where does this money go?” he asked. “Certainly not to the roads. I almost broke an axle on a pothole back there.”
There was a short spiel I was supposed to deliver in response to this sort of query, but I didn’t bother. I wanted to get this guy out of here, since I was waiting on a particular vehicle.