The stranger was on Highway 101 near Ukiah, California. Before the—as he now thought of it—car-tastrophe, he’d been riding in the now smashed-up big rig after the driver offered to give him a ride from a truck stop near Willows. He said his name was Bill. Just for fun, the stranger said his name was also Bill.

“Where are you headed?” Bill asked.

“Just south for now,” said the stranger.

“Going down to San Diego or something? ’Cause I don’t go that far.”

“Not that far. And I’ll be making a stop along the way.”

Bill nodded sagely. “Oh, San Francisco. That’s where everybody wants to go.”

The stranger looked at him. “Really? Not, say, the City of Angels?”

Bill made a sour face. “L.A.’s too far. And it’s full of nitwits and creeps. You know, TV people.”

“It sounds awful.”

“It is. Smog thick enough to slice into a sandwich. Traffic like the end of the world. Weird women who sometimes aren’t women, if you get my drift.”

The stranger didn’t, but the way the driver said it, he didn’t want to inquire further. However, the end-of-the-world comment made him laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

He looked out the window. “Everything. It’s a funny world, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

The stranger turned to Bill. “The things people believe. The things they want.”

Bill shook his head. “You talk sideways a lot of the time, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do. I’m not from around here.”

Bill brightened. “That’s it. I thought you might be a foreigner.”

The stranger grinned. “A foreigner. That’s it exactly.”

“Well, wherever you’re from, your English is pretty good.”

“Thanks. I try my best.”

Bill shifted gears and the truck picked up speed. “I wondered why you didn’t talk too much. Most hitchers I pick up won’t stop flapping their gums. But I had a feeling you’d be different.”

“Thank you. I try not to intrude on people. Even when I do a bit of redecorating.”

Bill was quiet for a minute. “So you’re a decorator? Huh. I wouldn’t have taken you for one of those kind of people. Not that there’s anything wrong with them. I just didn’t take you for one.”

The stranger looked at the speedometer. They were doing just under seventy. “Looks can be deceiving, I suppose.”

“Oh boy, do I know about that. Like I said, some of those Hollywood women. There was this one time some buddies and me were partying with some gals back at the hotel, only it turns out . . . Goddammit,” grunted Bill.

“What’s wrong?” said the stranger, glad Bill had stopped his story. It was taking a dark turn and was on the verge of ruining his good mood.