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     The boy sat on the cracked and faded shoulder of the old highway and stared blindly down the open landscape before him, the road seeming like a vast horizontal well into which he had fallen or, perhaps, been pushed. His moody eyes, blue today, slowly moved to the highway's vanishing point and then, continuing upwards, tracked across the airy vault of the clear country sky until the hard glare of noon pushed them back down again to rest on the crisp line of the horizon.
    Behind him, a whisper of rubber on asphalt and a low petroleum growl announced the coming of an automobile. The boy scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off self-consciously, and stuck out his thumb, wondering if the driver would stop but not really caring one way or the other. The car, a long green Ford LTD, showed no sign of slowing and a moment later passed him with a great dopplerized whoosh!, a ghost in the fast lane leaving only the smell of exhaust to mark its passage.
    The boy shrugged inwardly and shuffled over to where his backpack lay pregnantly on the shoulder of the road. Not too many cars out here today, he thought. Guess I may as well start walking.
    He saw the LTD coming back before he could get his gear situated comfortably on his shoulders. It was reeling backwards down the edge of the highway, rocking drunken and boatlike as the driver made minor corrections in steering. It slowed and came to a stop about an eighth of a mile away from the boy, waiting for him. What the hell, he thought, and ran as quickly as his ancient combat boots and the burden on his back would let him.
    The driver was an old man. His thick limbs and heavy body spoke of a robust youth squandered in some blue collar hell, underpaid and overworked. The grey eyes that peered marble-like from under the faintly Neanderthal brow held a permanently confused look, as if somewhere behind them was a half-memory, a fragment of an inkling, that somehow life had more to offer. He eyed the boy speculatively, sizing him up and perhaps wondering what sort of weapons he might be carrying.
    "How far ya goin', boy? I'm jest up the road a piece to Wasatch, that's in the next county over, 'n' there's a truck stop up that way where you might ketch a good 'un."
    "Thanks. I'm on my way to West Virginia, I guess."
    "Ya guess? Well are ya or ain't ya?"
    The boy stowed his gear in the back of the car and eased into the front seat, unconsciously brushing his hand across the pocket that held his hunting knife.
    "Where the hell ya comin' from, anyway, boy?"
    "California."
    The old man whistled long and low.
    "Gahdam, you a long way from home. Reckon ya got some purty big balls, for a kid. Say, ya don't mess around with that damn dope, do ya boy?"
    "Nah."
    "Good. One thing I don't like is a gahdamn dope fiend. Hey, open up that glove box and let's have a drink, will ya? Look like ya could use one."
    The boy thumbed open the glove compartment and, concealing his amusement, pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of the stuff, feeling it burn deep as it slid down his throat and into his belly, a wave of molten silver spreading through his guts. He passed the bottle to his host, who seized it good naturedly and upended it with a will.
    "You're a railroad man, aren't you?"
    The old man smacked his lips and frowned, furrowing his thick brow into a fat grey caterpillar.
    "Now how the hell did ya know that, boy?"
    "Missing finger. Where your wedding ring used to be."
    The old man grinned delightedly and held up his left hand, wriggling the stub of his absent digit like a boy scout showing off a merit badge.
    "Hell, boy! You a reg'lar Charlie Chan, aintcha? Go on, have another pull off that bottle."
    And the car hurtled on through the open glow of midday.