She hurried to catch up, hoping she wasn’t going to run into another freak like the one she’d met the night before, the pervert in the eighteen-wheeler. When she reached the truck, she peered through the window and breathed, the relief almost suffocating.
The driver was a middle-aged woman with a kind look in her eyes.
Kirsten opened the door, hesitating a little before climbing inside.
“Come on up, hon,” the woman said. Her voice was raspy and dry, giving away years of smoking, the stink of the habit still prevalent despite the two pine-shaped fresheners hanging from the air-conditioning knob.
Kirsten paused, seeing how water was dripping from her jacket and pants. The woman, as if reading her mind, waved her concern away.
“Never mind, it will dry up. Here, take this,” she said, reaching into a duffel bag behind the seat and extracting a colorful towel with a musty, soapy smell. “Dry yourself with it, take that jacket off, and put this under your butt.”
Kirsten followed her instructions silently, struggling to find words to say. Kindness had been a rare occurrence in her life. Fighting back tears, she strapped herself into the seat, then put her hands closer to the heating vents, warming them up.
The woman set the truck in motion with a gear-grinding noise, the engine roaring as it struggled to pick up some speed.
“This old jalopy can’t handle its loads anymore,” she said, shooting a quick stained-teeth smile her way. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?”
Kirsten faltered, panic rising to her throat.
Hazel laughed, but there was sadness and understanding in her voice, not an ounce of derision. “Make something up, hon. I gotta call you something, right? No shame in telling a little white lie.”
“Um, Kirsten,” she muttered, stuttering on her own name, but deciding the woman’s kindness deserved her honesty.
“And where are you off to, Kirsten?”
“California,” she replied, a little more confident. “San Francisco, if you can take me all the way there.”
Hazel laughed again. “With looks like yours, I thought you were going to Hollywood.” Her smile waned into a sigh, her big chest heaving with it. “I can take you all the way to the California border, but that’s where I have to stop. That’s where this is going,” she added, patting the center of the steering wheel twice, right where the Ford logo was affixed, scratched and discolored by the long years of use. “To Caldwell Farms.”
“Thank you,” Kirsten replied.
Her stomach grumbled, and Kirsten leaned forward, trying to hide the sounds it made. Hazel shot her a quick look, but didn’t say another word. When the next exit came, she put the blinker on and took the off ramp.
Panicked, Kirsten shifted in her seat. “Where are we going?”
“To get some gas,” Hazel replied. “Darn piece of junk won’t run without it.” She winked, and, after a brief moment, chuckled heartily at her own joke.
Kirsten waited by the truck while Hazel refueled, watching the numbers shifting quickly on the pump and warily looking at the passing cars, afraid she’d soon see her uncle’s patrol car approaching fast, flashers and sirens, ready to drag her back into her own hell.
After Hazel finished gassing up, she invited Kirsten inside to use the restroom. She happily accepted, and took as little time as she could in there, washing her face and hands thoroughly, the smell of rainwater and dirt still strong on her.
When she came out, she found Hazel seated at a small table in front of the burger joint. Two plates loaded with cheeseburgers and fries awaited, the smell of sizzling bacon and molten cheddar driving a dagger through her empty stomach.
“For me?” she asked, eyes rounded in surprise, pointing at the plate in front of the empty seat.
Taking a bite from her burger, Hazel invited her to sit with a hand gesture. She chewed loudly, then said, “I don’t see anyone else here.”
It must’ve been the tastiest meal she’d ever had. Every bite she took filled her mouth with juices of grilled beef and melted cheese. The fries were just right, crispy on the outside and a little raspy with grains of salt, and soft on the inside, the smell filling her nostrils as she bit into them.
When she was almost done wolfing it down, she regretted not having taken more time to savor its taste. She picked the fallen sesame seeds off the plate with the tip of her finger, and even the tiniest speck of leftover French fry found its way into her mouth.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at Hazel briefly then glancing away, afraid the woman would see her eyes welling up.
“You’re welcome, hon,” Hazel replied quietly. “It ain’t much, but I figured you’d love a bite.” She wiped her hands on a paper napkin, then ran her fingers through her thinning, bleached hair and stood. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Yes,” Kirsten replied enthusiastically.
They drove in silence for a few miles, Kirsten fighting to stay awake, torn between the comfort of the heated cabin and the thought of what she was going to do once she reached San Francisco. She’d never been there. Where would she go? She almost asked Hazel, but it would’ve sounded as if she was pressuring the woman. Her life wasn’t Hazel’s problem.
“What made you leave home, hon? And what will you do when you get to San Fran? Know someone there?” the lady asked, as if reading her mind.
Kirsten shuffled in her seat, and shot Hazel a quick, panicked look.
“Listen, I’m pretty sure I’m breaking the law by taking you on instead of reporting you to the cops,” Hazel said, her voice kind and understanding as it had always been. “You can’t be more than fifteen years old. Wanna know why I do it?”
Kirsten didn’t reply. She just stared at the woman, waiting for her to continue, anxiety gripping her chest in a vise.
“I used to be you,” she eventually said. “A runaway from a torn family, thinking I could do
