The Caravan of Death
I was standing somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, hugging myself in the cold dry air of autumn dusk. The rides out of Utah had been scarce and short. Now I had been left afoot again on the shoulder of I-80, probably much too close to Donner Pass.
I hoped nobody was hungry.
Not that my welfare mattered to anyone. I was getting tired of being alone. After many months thumbing on the road, I was finally realizing that if I curled up and died right where I was on any given night, not a single person anywhere would notice I was gone.
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, except for the keilin, I was already gone.
I turned my back on the empty highway and walked up a slope under tall, pointed pine trees, hoping to find some sort of windbreak where I coul
