“Whatta we do now?” the hitchhiker searches the driver once he’s fully caught his breath. It’s obvious that the driver is calling the shots, and not just because he was the one behind the wheel.

“I’un know. We should pra’bly tire up. N’case she wakes.”

They look around for any type of rope. The closest they come are the electrical cords for a lamp and a bedside clock, before they decide that tightly twisted sheets will work just fine. They tie the poor girl to the bedposts and gag her mouth, just to be safe. Her face has come away from the ordeal undamaged, for the most part; just a couple of scrapes and bruises. Even with the patches of dried blood, they don’t take away from the natural beauty she evidently possesses. Her nose may be a bit too thin and cheek bones a little too sharp –again, the idea of an alluring witch comes to mind- but in the repose of unconsciousness, they give off the air of a concentration directed inward. The driver is impressed, while the hitchhiker is drunk, high, and most likely horny. That is not to say who holds the better of intentions for her, assuming either the hitchhiker’s or the driver’s can be considered ‘good’ in the first place.

The hitchhiker and the driver both know that she needs medical attention. That can be gleamed easily enough just by looking at her. They don’t dare touch the sodden, torn dress or rearrange her body other than how it lays now, lopsided on a bare mattress.

The whiskey is finished off quickly and, combined with the tail end of a peyote comedown, the driver nods off where he sits. Just as he’s dropping off into a darkness that is not as harrowing as the one experienced during his hallucinatory ordeal, he takes note of the hitchhiker: where he is and what he’s doing. He’s still laid out on the opposite bed, but it’s not clear whether he’s asleep or awake. His head is propped up against the wall. It doesn’t seem too comfortable, but it’s at an angle that makes him look like he’s gazing at something further down his body, or perhaps slightly over the edge of the bed, or at the bottom of the adjacent wall. A hand rests on his stomach, but that could very well be to push his jacket down to keep it from obstructing the view. Whatever that view may be, the driver isn’t able to decide any further before he is out completely. He won’t be awoken until he hears the whispers and low groans, and the ominous rattle of a wood-frame bed.

“What the hell’re you doin?!” The driver’s grogginess is like an opaque wall separating him from the world. His brain tells his muscles, especially those in his thighs and calves, to move, quickly; but the neuro-motive effort is wasted on a still-slumbering body.