Sarah Shun-lien Bynum

Watch out for the rattlesnakes, he said, when he led us off five exits further.

We had to wait much longer there, and the guy in a Ford van who finally stopped had me sit in the front and Brody in the back, and he patted my knee the whole way and began to stroke the zipper and put his finger into the ripped spot.

I didn't say a word.

I thought it was my job to be polite and friendly.

I got more worried as his hand got more insistent, and I had endured quite a lot by the time he let us off near Pennsylvania.

Brody thought it was funny when I told him, and I said, Oh, man.

I was unhappy about it, but I wasn't frightened.

Whatever happened was something I could put up with.

Our next rides were guys who just wanted to talk, and Brody made up stories for them.

We were going to Arizona so we could work on a date farm.

We were going to Arizona to help manage his uncle's silver mine.

We were going to Arizona to work in his grandmother's hotel, and I was going to sing in the hotel's restaurant.

He had me sing for the driver.

I could carry a tune okay, and I did Home on the Range and Muskrat Love without my voice cracking.

I liked this part.

And what were we going to do when night fell?

How trusting I was.

Brody had the driver drop us at a strip mall somewhere at the edge of Ohio, where a motel advertised rooms for $12 a night.

He told the clerk we'd pay in the morning when we checked out, but the clerk said, I don't think so.

Brody said we were going to eat first and come back.