“Get’n here b’fore y’fall out.”

The hitchhiker continues his child’s play undeterred, as if he hasn’t heard the driver’s admonishment. Giving his passenger the benefit of the doubt, the driver’s about to repeat himself, louder and with a greater quiver to his voice, when the hitchhiker slides back in.

“Jess takin’ in th’view.”

The hitchhiker’s smile doesn’t fade but slips meanings. It turns from simple bemusement to a veiled threat without so much as the quiver of a whisker. The driver does not fool himself into thinking that the hitchhiker has missed the meaning of so many abandoned objects, all on display for passersby.

Death and loss are all around them. They’ve been there from the beginning. The only difference now is that one of them fights, resists, these unavoidable tropes while the other lives in them, and makes them his home. Whichever one is a better survival strategy remains to be seen. Both men are here, gazing at the same desert wasteland and soaking in the same chill of night.

“Can’t wait fer Vegas. Tha’should be some fun.” The hitchhiker settles into his seat with his boots up on the dash. The yellow tarnish of his unlit cigarette is more effective as an ornament to his weather-beaten face. His eyes are wild, yet focused on something in the distance. The driver looks over. His face can barely hold back his unease. It comes out as pursed lips and watering eyes. He wants to lay down the ground rules right away, or thinks about how he should have from their first moment together, but fears for giving himself away. There is to be no stopping in Vegas, or anywhere else he happens to pass through with this menacing figure. The driver castigates himself for how stupid it was, even fatal to his mission, to pick up a stranger. If he is that desperate for company, he figures he should have stopped off for a whore.

The driver is overcome with the desire to pull over and force the hitchhiker out. He looks over once again, hoping for an opportunity, or a sign, but knows he can do nothing with this medium-built drifter, dozing off with his collar pulled up to his cheeks, cowboy style. He tries to settle-in himself, as much as he can. The driver feels his own chin digging into his collar. The rough wool is comforting against the wind. He tries to bring a cowboy tune to mind but can only think of one: theirs. He sees her smile and has to stop.