Jason

We didn't waste time.

We packed up in record time, shouldered our packs, and started walking along the road.

The silence between us was thick.

No one whistled, no one sang, no one said anyone's name.

Three hours later, a dust plume appeared on the horizon behind us.

It resolved into an old pickup with peeling blue paint, crawling along the washboard road like it had all the time in the world.

We stepped off to the side and stuck out our thumbs.

The truck pulled over.

The driver was a middle-aged white guy in a ball cap and mirrored sunglasses.

There was a little resin hula girl on his dashboard, shimmying in the heat.

You kids broke down somewhere?

He asked through the open window.

Parking area back that way, Dylan said, pointing.

His voice came out croaky.

Any chance we could catch a lift?

The guy squinted at us, taking in the dust, the dried sweat, the way we all clung subtly closer together than most strangers.

He nodded.

Hop in the back.

I'm heading that way.

We climbed into the bed of the truck, packs rattling against the metal.