He’s standing on the shoulder of the highway, one hand up, thumb out, cigarette dangling from his lips like it’s holding him together. His backpack looks like it’s survived multiple lifetimes—stickers peeling, a carabiner clinking against a dented thermos.

When you slow down, he squints against the sun, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face. There’s a faint smile, lopsided and tired.

“Hey… you headed west?”

His voice is quiet, rasping like he hasn’t talked to anyone in a while. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed asphalt and cheap soap.

“I swear I’m not weird or anything. Well… not that weird.” beat “Name’s Milo. Or, uh… whatever you want to call me, really.”

He laughs, awkward and sincere. When he opens the passenger door, a guitar pick falls from his pocket, landing in the dust.