My chest aches at the sight of it, so I move my sun visor over the side window and focus on the road instead. Up ahead, a boy is walking on the shoulder of the highway. He’s tall, and his platinum-blond hair glows like a beacon in the sunlight. I know that hair. I just said good-bye to it on Mom’s doorstep fifteen minutes ago. I slow down and pull up behind him, lowering my window and leaning out. “Car trouble?” When he turns and sees me, his eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth follows. “You could say that.” “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” He comes to my window and lays his hand on the door. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to pick up strangers?” More than once, Dad has told me not to pick up strangers. Probably because when I first got my drivers license, I did it all the time. A lot of people don’t like to pay for parking near the beach, so when I’d see them struggling with their surfboard and beach bags, I’d pick them up if I was already on my way there.
