He walked up to where the gravel road turned off the blacktop and stood still for a minute, looking up the hill. Then he started. His feet got hot and he began to sweat in the May sun. He took off his jacket, then his sweater. As he went up he could see more of the valley. A lot of last winter’s snow was still on the higher mountains. Nothing looked familiar. He wished he hadn’t talked the bus driver into letting him off on the highway.
He was leaning against his backpack in the shade of a pine when he heard a truck coming up the grade. He didn’t get up. Not because he was shy, he told himself, though he hadn’t hitched in twenty years. It was the thought of his own cars topping the grade: the first one, the VW bug he’d owned in high school; the second one, the Alfa Romeo Spider he’d sold last month.
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