The door kicked open and Carl nudged me forward. I climbed three shallow steps, slid across the sticky gray seat. The driver had thin hair stuck to his forehead and sideburns on the side of his face. Sweat trickled down over his skin, soaked into the collar of a red-and-white checked shirt. He smelled strange, like wet newspapers, although I probably smelled strange too.

When I straightened up in the seat I saw a bunch of photographs taped to the dashboard. Of a young woman. A whole lot of skin. I kept looking left or right, trying not to stare. Carl eased in next to me, and when I glanced up at him, I knew he’d seen the pictures too. He said slowly, “Lots of wholesome trees out my window, Magic Boy.” His arm pressed into my shoulder. I felt safe beside him. He was a huge person.

“Howdy,” the man driving said as the truck grumbled and popped forward.

“Hi,” I managed, but my heart was still beating hard and I twisted my torso away from him. I tried not to look at the photos, to focus on the forest blurring by, but my eyes wanted to wander, settle there. I stared at Carl’s pant legs. I didn’t understand how they could have a sharp crease. He had the nicest shoes I’d ever seen.

“Where you friends headed?”

“The Stop,” Carl said. “Just the, the, urh, The Stop.”

“Gotcha.”

The man kept taking one hand off the wheel. He stroked his giant silver belt buckle with his thumb. Then a sideways gaze. “Looking rough there, kid. About as worn as a cow’s tail in summer.”

“I fell and hit a—”

He banged the dashboard. “Is not my business. What youse do with your life. I won’t even ask you why you got no shoes on. You see?”

“Urh,” Carl said. His guttural grunt sounded annoyed. “Magic Boy was made with no shoes.”

“Ain’t we all?”

I could hear Carl grumbling. Saying things I couldn’t understand. I looked down and sideways. I didn’t want to stare, but it was hard. The bottom of the truck driver’s blue jeans stopped way above his ankles. Near his knee a compartment had fallen open. Inside a glass bottle full of small white cubes lay on its side. No label. Pills, maybe. The man laughed, picked up the bottle and shook it. “Sleep is for the dead.”

“Urh,” Carl said. His grunt was even sharper this time.

Then the man banged his knuckle on the dashboard again, right above the photographs. I had to look then. “Got myself a little missy,” he said. “That’s her right there. Having our first young one, we are. Already put up a swing set in the backyard. Hammered right into the ground.”

“Kids like swings.” My voice sounded like hands were around my neck.