Still wide. I’m still in the back of the pickup but the wheels are stationary, the engine quiet. My neck feels stiff, my hip pinched from its contact with corrugated steel. I hear boot heels on wood planking. I raise my head to see that the truck is parked in front of a run-down, apparently defunct diner, and the driver who picked me up is walking out onto the front deck. He stops at the edge of the last plank, squats down until his buttocks rest on his heels. Staring off into the distance, he begins to roll a cigarette. His face is strong and dark, wide with years, and although it seems youthful, almost babyish, I sense the youth to be the lie in this dichotomy. His skin shows weather and wear, like saddle leather left too long in the wind and sun. He wears a deep, old scar across one eye. He is dressed much like I am. Jeans, a loose white shirt, heavy, thick-soled boots. Wide-brimmed hat. His hands are garnished with silver and turquoise, his nails bitten to the quick. I raise up to a sit, and in doing so, catch his eye.
