The foam lid comes off the chest and feels cold in my fingers, and the icy air rises to my face. Wet ice slides down my chosen can of root beer, bunching above my fingers, and I can barely restrain myself from opening it while getting his can of Budweiser, I am so hungry. First I pop his open and hand it to him, then finally pop my own can and put the cold metal to my lips before it stops hissing. The sugar seems to enter my bloodstream right away. My lips peel free from the cold metal.

Boy you’re thirsty, he says.

I set the can between my thighs and turn to him and nod.

Don’t stop now, he says. Go at it, buddy.

I drink.

We stop at the gas station I pulled into last night. Maybe I should warn him about bad gas. When you know something that could hurt someone or their truck you should say something about it, but for some reason I do not. And I do not want the tow truck guy to know I should be complaining to the gas guy either, so I duck lower in my seat so the attendant cannot see me. The tow truck guy offers to go inside and buy me something to eat. I tell him no thanks, but later see him paying for a candy bar.

When he passes my window on his way to the pump, he hands the candy bar up casually, as though we are old buddies and there is no need to thank him. From the way he looks you would think he was some sort of a local biker or redneck, but something about the way he did this seems familiar, and as he moves about his truck he seems different from the other people you see in this town. Just as I am wondering whether he is from Los Angeles and maybe he will recognize something about Tomas’s car, I notice a USC emblem dangling from his key chain.

The pump clicks off and the metal nozzle scrapes the truck as he takes it out of the tank, then he opens his door.

Getting into the cab and reaching for the ignition, he says, You’re a quiet type, aren’t you?

I nod.

He thinks this over.

That’s a good trait to have, he says.

We turn back onto the main street and pass an old sooty brick building whose black tar roof glitters in the sunlight. In the distance the mountains are white-capped. Patches of snow peer out brilliantly from within the bowls and crags of granite faces, and seem to flicker as we move.

That’s a pretty strange trait for someone who comes from Los Angeles.

I guess so.