When I stop at a gas station I use the bathroom but do not wash my hands. They still smell like Buster and I do not want to lose her dog scent smell. It has been a few hours since I stole my brother’s dog and sold her, and already I miss her, though there is no way I could turn back now. As I pump gas a family in a white BMW with plates that tell me they bought it in Newport Beach regard my brother’s Olds suspiciously. Which tells me they have had encounters with gangs before. They look sporty, the blond boys in back with their colorful windbreakers, crusted with salt and rolled up to their pale knobby elbows. Probably they are on their way up to Mammoth for camping. They look like they might be nice people, but the oldest one mad-dogs me while the gentle-faced smaller one holds on to his brother’s arm, then buries his face shyly into his brother’s shoulder. They probably think I am Mexican. I hook the pump before the car is filled and pay the attendant and leave.

Instead of taking the 5, I travel up along the eastern part of the state to keep away from the trucks and truck stops and the BMWs with Newport Beach blond boys, or anyone else who might recognize this car. I also don’t care for that highway with its dry brown grass that goes on monotonously for miles. It is worse than Palm Springs. You would think with so many people driving up to San Francisco or down to LA someone would plant trees along the road or something. They could make it a nice-looking type of plant you could harvest like broccoli or grapes or carrots. Anyway, this time I am not taking that road.