hitchhiker

His right thumb poked up in the air, neither waving at nor halting the onslaught of cars, trucks, motorcycles. In the vespers desert landscape, he looked like a caricature of a saguaro cactus. Walking backward, he was careful not to trip over an unnoticed branch, cobble, or Coke can. And if he were to trip, he'd fall away from traffic, onto the shoulder. At least that's how he was training himself. The vehicles that zoomed by left a concussive wake of dust and sound. Hitchhike. So Sixties. Did anyone do it anymore? Did fate dole out the same risks and perils? Was it illegal in Arizona?

He was afraid of nightfall. He decided he'd turn around and walk along with the traffic parallel to him on the left, if he had to. But he knew all he would need was one distracted driver to pull the curtains down. Who knows, could a nondistracted driver barrel into a stranger on purpose? The raucous and-riled up times said, Yes.

But he didn't have to worry about such a scenario, not this night. A silver Volkswagen Rabbit with its right signal blinking slowed down in the right lane and churned up the gravel. He instinctively moved farther into the shoulder and looked to size up the driver.

The car rolled to a stop, its engine idling. She leaned across to the passenger side of the two-door and shoved it open.

"Get in."