The hitchhiker has dozed off. His hands are collapsed in his lap and his bag has fallen to the floor. The driver can almost sneak a glance at its contents, as the half-filled bag is not fastened. When the hitchhiker stirs, his boot catches the opening of his pillowcase-cum-satchel and slides it further ajar. The contents would fall out if it there wasn’t a big bulge of something inside, blocking the way.

“Hrmmmmm.” The driver’s interest is peaked, but the headlights of an oncoming car bring his attention back to the road. In the shadows that sway over them as the approaching car passes, the hitchhiker turns and groans, waking himself up in the process.

“Where’re we?” He stretches his arms and his chest expands forward until the driver expects it to pop. His legs follow suit, in the limited space of the cab, and incidentally kick the bag back on its side and out of view. The driver can swear he heard a metal clunk in the process, but is already delivering an answer before he’s realized it.

“Dunno, really. I’d say ‘bout half’ar frum Vegas.” The driver tacks on that magic word, “Vegas”; pronounced in his lazy Michigan-cum-central-California drawl and without the slightest hint of the word’s Spanish origins, so comes out more like “vay-giz”.

The hitchhiker flashes a childish grin in response. That would make the driver the parent. The latter carries a stern expression, presumably intended to ward off any asinine child’s play before it begins.

If there is anywhere to test the driver’s resolve, it’s in Las Vegas. Not that the driver claims to be a convincing handler. He’d much rather prefer not to take on the role, but short of throwing his passenger out of the car in the middle of the uninhabited Nevada desert, he will, at the very least, have to insist that they part ways once inside the city of gold-leaf brassieres.