Little Creek, Arizona

Whatever adrenaline the driver has been running on, it has congealed into a heavy sludge, making his arms and eyelids too heavy to support for much longer. In all their excitement -a high coming on as fast as a ’41 Chevrolet half-ton pickup will go- the driver and the hitchhiker hadn’t exchanged a single word. The passing of the enormous bottle, back and forth, substituted for conversation; until it was emptied once they rejoined the paved highway running the northeast corner of Nevada. Then, the bottle met with a quick, but appropriately musical, smash against a roadside boulder as the pickup sailed past.

The driver isn’t curious as to exactly what was at the root of the commotion, undoubtedly provoked by the hitchhiker, back at Indian Hill. If he imagines the worst, he would probably not be too far off.

The driver’s body begins to drain, and he feels that unless he can somehow revive the rush that came with such a narrow escape –it had previously turned his body into a molten flow of alertness- he’s going to stop the car and not be able to start if for a really long time. The exhaustion of the past day –day and a half, counting the double-shift on the ranch two nights prior- threatens to derail his whole plan.

“Michigan, killer, killed her, kill her….” The driver looks at the hitchhiker, who is wired. Soaked in perspiration, there are rivers of sweat finding their way down the passenger’s forehead and neck.

“You ok, buddy?”

The hitchhiker’s eyes, wide in their sockets, are almost big enough to reflect the entirety of the early morning gloom before them. He says nothing.

“So where’ma takin’ you enways?”

The hitchhiker stares straight ahead, eyes enormous but unfocused. An electric hum seems to take over the car. It either emanates from the electric current pulsing though the hitchhiker’s sweat glands, and causing them to go wild, or it’s the drone of exhaustion spinning itself out behind the driver’s eyes. His vision dims, the hum grows louder. The driver’s head lurches forward.