The minutes that follow, on the edge of that same scratchy chair, are unbearable. The driver recalls as much as he can of the phone call. There’s no doubt that the man on the line was Mr. Warshansky’s, though the voice wasn’t right. It seemed a lot more distant than the miles of telephone wire would have normally rendered it. That’s not to say it wasn’t clear. Every word spun itself from the man’s lips, into the receiver, through the myriad of cables and operator boards, and directly into the driver’s brain, where they now burn singularly, each like a glowing iron, throughout his entire body. Still, he can’t shake voice. Why did it sound like Mr. Warshansky doing his best imitation of the driver -“an you won’ call here no more”? Or was it the other way around?

The driver’s rage might stifle his recollection, but not his certainty. There’s no question the voice was describing the hitchhiker. Though to Mr. Warshansky, of course, it would only be a hazy memory of a man who disappeared from Paula’s life with as little fanfare as the day he first came over to pick up that well-developed sixteen year-old. To the driver, it was the directive to kill that he had been waiting for, though he was not sure from where it would come, if it came at all. Now, to ask him to hold off on that order –even if it’s a mere fifteen minutes extra in that waiting room/office while a last hose is tightened- seems unpardonable.

The driver is already a murderer, technically speaking. Only now, however, does he feel that status –can it be called a title?- swell to the crux of his fate: as certain as he is Paula’s fiancé and the proud carrier of a .44 Barringer ‘Night Hawk’, complete with dual-action hammer. His fingers curl –he can’t stop them- around imaginary triggers and squeeze all six rounds into the large desk opposite. Meanwhile, sweat collects around the metal of the real trigger, tucked into the back of his new denim jeans. The seven hundred miles to Dearborn close in until they are reduced and purified to the twenty-two feet separating the driver from his pickup in the next room. He wills the mechanic to yell out the ‘ok’ –he can hear his young, scratchy voice as clearly as if it was his own- until he finally does. The driver is in his pickup before the hood can be slammed and the three ten dollar bills thrown on the desk can uncrumple. If he didn’t have to stop for gas –the tank had less than a quarter remaining when the pickup broke down- he wouldn’t stop at all.