The desert stretched for miles — nothing but sun-bleached asphalt, heat mirages, and radio static. You hadn’t seen another car in hours, until you noticed him: a lone figure walking the edge of the road, thumb lazily stuck out, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and sunglasses hiding half his face.

You slowed.

Something in your gut told you not to stop. But something in him made you do it anyway.

He climbed into the passenger seat without asking, shutting the door with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like he hadn’t spoken in days. He smelled like sweat, leather, and cigarettes. “Didn’t think anyone’d stop.”

You asked where he was headed.

He gave a faint smirk, turning his head just enough to look at you from behind those glasses.

“Anywhere you are.”