The hitchhiker has complicated all that. Now, the necessity to choose what is and isn’t -possible and not possible- may be the only thing that saves the driver’s mission. Even if his suspicions turn out to be correct, it requires a clear and focused mind to make that decision. The driver can physically feel his exhaustion urging him to an edge where all would be lost.

“Ah, what’m I do-ing?!”

He’s dreaming, though awake, and yelling; all-the-while continuing to drive.

His screams wake the hitchhiker. He looks over at the driver and can tell something significant has passed; maybe some of the seeds he tossed out with his talk of prison have found agreeable soil in the driver’s suspecting mind. This just raises the hitchhiker’s own suspicions up a couple of notches.

“Y’aright?”

“Yeah, it’s just my stomach.” The driver feels obliged to give a brief rub of his abdomen and a grimace.

“I know what ya mean. Ya need ta filler up. With booze o’r food it doesn’t matter, but it needs somethin”

“There’s nothin’ around. An even if there were, it’s late.”

“I got these.” The hitchhiker produces his canvas satchel that was bestowed upon him by the Indian. Out of it tumbles a few clumps of what appear to be dried fruit. They’re of not-yet-ripe pistachio color.

“What are they?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m willin to try a handful if you are.”

“I’on know. Those In-jeens got some pretty strange…”

“Ah, c’mon. They’re juss fruit fer cryin out loud. They’ve juss been dried an….” The hitchhiker takes a whiff and his words almost curdle back on him. “Juss try em.”