It was hot. Not that I was surprised by the heat since I was in the desert, on one of those little state freeways that wound its way to Vegas. The sun was a blazing ball of orange, just now beginning to dip on the horizon, which seemed like a thousand miles away. A few cars had passed by, but in these days of sensation and worry, no one was willing to pick up a scruffy hitchhiker with a three day beard. But I knew I had to get to the next town and inside since nights out in the desert turned cold. I also wasn’t ready to sleep in the sand with the rattlesnakes and scorpions. Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, I turned my head. To my relief it was just an oncoming white van. The driver was hidden by the glare of the sun. It passed me and slowed to a stop. I saw a New York license plate. With rusty wheel wells and a faded plumbing logo on the side, it wasn’t much of a vehicle. But it beat walking. I ran up to the passenger window which rolled down. “Was that your car back there?”
