Nevada, 1969

An all-but-empty Interstate stretches straight, streaking horizon to horizon: it is a ribbon with no bow, wrapping northern Nevada. The eye fixes on absent fences, looks for limits, scans scenery overwhelmed by sky. I cock my thumb to beg a ride; a tear forms at the corner of my eye. "Damn wind!" I mutter, half believing the lie. A dusty pickup rolls toward me then accelerates, leaves me staring. It dwindles into distance. -- "OK!", I snarl -- I kick a rock, pick up my pack and start to walk, left thumb poked out to nothing. Someone will stop. Two cars speed by; I wave to them. My belly rumbles and I count the steps I take. My wet eyes ache. Someone will stop. Or won't.