The motorcycle sputtered and burped for the last three miles as the pin on the gauge pushed up against empty until it bowed and almost broke. He'd hoped to make it as far as Phoenix, but was nowhere near. It's not like he had anything waiting for him in Phoenix, but sometimes all a man has is a hope to keep him going. Unfortunately, hope doesn't make up for gasoline.
He could see a hill in front of him, so he popped the motorcycle into neutral and walked it over to where the road dropped in altitude. He looked out and saw a slaughterhouse and a tight grouping of houses. He thought he saw a gas station, but didn't dare to hope that much. A little hope will keep a man going, too much hope and he'll burst and die. Besides, he had no money, and few business men make it to a million by giving things away for free.
With a grunt, he pushed the motorcycle once more and down the hill he went. Maybe there wasn't a gas station, maybe he didn't have money, but at least he could ask the slaughterhouse for a job. He could hope for that. That wouldn't break him.