“He split bout forty mints ago…”

“What the hell you sayin, ‘he split’?! You mean he took off?”

“Ah’dn know. Ah’ven seen ‘im. V’been out here…” -“..wi’da purty lady,” his exaggerated accent almost veered off into saying.

Tilly takes a good long look at Heather, up and down. She’s been lost in total submission, mesmerized by the way his brow collects fiercely over his eyes; even the way the spit pools at the clef in the middle of his large, purple bottom lip.

He wants to growl “watch you lookin at?” but can only come up with a low, “hmmmph. I’m gonna find that cheatin mothafucka and he’s gonna pay me my money.”

Tilly threatens the driver with a sharp finger to his sternum. The driver doesn’t flinch. He also doesn’t care what happens to either the hitchhiker or this goon. Let one waste of human life worry about another, he thinks satisfactorily to himself. The driver doesn’t bother to glance at Heather before turning towards the entrance leading back inside. He manages two steps through the open glass doors when the night erupts in a deathly, high-pitched scream. The sound immediately brings to mind a wild animal. Perhaps it has snuck into the house and attacked a guest.

The driver cannot see specific figures, but can sense that there is a great commotion inside. He hesitates to come any closer, knowing that the hitchhiker –his de facto companion- and not a stray desert creature is probably the cause for such a deathly shriek.

Sure enough, voices –those of several authoritative men and the gasps of one breathless woman- follow upon the waves of turmoil. They float through the veranda doors much like the light chatter moments before. It’s strange how the calm of the night manages to deaden their urgency. Clips of “oh my God, she’s not breathing” and “where is dat sonnofabitch”, the latter in a more familiar black patois, are neutralized by the desert stillness.