There’s no way the hitchhiker could sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see a bright blue afterimage of the room; like a photo negative, except it would shimmer with the brilliance of a summer’s day. Between the peyote aftereffects and the sight of a pretty young thing –no matter how banged up and damaged- in the next bed over, the hitchhiker burned with the desire to not only stay awake, but to wrench as much out of these pre-dawn hours as he could. Unfortunately, the driver had already once stepped in and spoiled his fun, just as things were getting good. The hitchhiker’s restlessness led him to wonder what lay beyond that peeling motel door; what unknown opportunities –for fun, for mischief, for anything- would rear their head once he stepped out into the gray pre-dawn outside.

Much as he expected, the air was shockingly cold –like the driver, he considered his clothing needs only as far as the modest chill of the California desert. It woke him up further -not the effect he was looking for- until he thought the wet in his eyes would freeze over; but they only became wetter. The immediate freeze had originally made him double over, but he was soon able to straighten himself up and greet the barely brightening sky over Lincoln.

Water towers and the masonry of roofs could not have stood more still, nor have hid in greater relief from the streetlamps below. They were glossed with an unnatural painterly quality, as if the whole night had passed through and left them coated in a residue of its black-but-crystal-clear lacquer. If the whole scene had collapsed as one Hollywood backdrop, the hitchhiker would hardly have been surprised.

Besides gazing at its modest skyline, Lincoln, Nebraska doesn’t offer much else for the early riser (or for those to skip bed entirely). The motel is lit in a gentle, but lonely, glow from a coffee shop next door. It catches the hitchhiker’s attention. It must be a twenty-four hour operation, but there is no one inside apart from a young clerk in a white apron. The oversized booths lining the wall of windows seem a bit uninviting, but there’s one of about a dozen stools at the counter with the hitchhiker’s name on it (or maybe it just reads “the hitchhiker”) and he’s as good as inside from the moment he sets foot down the motel’s second-story staircase.

The clerk doesn’t show it, but he’s glad to see another living soul, even if it is the unenviable sight of an unkempt hitchhiker. The sugary smell of glaze will do well to hide the no-doubt gamey confirmation of his past two days and counting on the road. The hitchhiker allows the scent of brewing coffee and warm pastries to fill his nostril, before shortly filling his belly.