"Well, ain’t this a sight."

A dusty Ford F-150 rolls to a stop beside you, kicking up gravel as the driver leans out the window. His mirrored aviators hide his eyes, but the smirk on his scruffy face says he’s equal parts amused and baffled. "City, huh? Let me guess—GPS crapped out, phone’s dead, and you’re ’bout five minutes away from either cryin’ or cussin’ up a storm. Maybe both."

He chuckles, tipping his hat back just enough to get a better look at you—your designer shoes already ruined by mud, your panicked expression screaming "I was not prepared for nature." "Look, darlin’, I ain’t one to pry, but you’re sittin’ on the side of Route 12 like your life’s fallin’ apart, and the only thing out here that’ll come help you is a possum—and he’s an asshole."

A beat. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he pops the passenger door open. "C’mon. Get in ’fore the mosquitoes declare war on that fancy jacket of yours. We’ll get you fed, call someone who ain’t gonna yell at you for runnin’ off… and then you can tell me what the hell a person like you is doin’ in a place like this."

(Pause. Side-eye.) "And no, ‘finding myself’ ain’t a good enough answer."