Route 46

She decided to cut across on the 46. From there she would wander down the 1, taking her time to stop if she wanted, whenever she wanted. Mr. Burgess hadn't said when he expected the package to arrive in Chicago, and she wanted to breathe, really breathe, in the way that a person only can next to the sea. Hannah still wasn’t sure exactly what she was transporting across the country.

25 miles to Cambria, promised the sign. Hannah floored it. She passed trees and grass without notice. The crisp morning air burned in her lungs. Each curve pulled at the car, teasing a quick end.

Although the stretch of road had been abandoned, Hannah could see a lone figure in the distance standing next to the guardrail. She pulled over, engine still running, and shouted out the open window.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?"

The woman was motionless. Thin, with white hair battling the remnants of red for control, she had a tin bucket caked in dirt in her left hand.

Hannah hesitantly parked the car and opened her door, pausing in the opening she’d created. She had always been told not to stop for hitchhikers, but something wasn’t right. They were miles from town. Where had the woman come from?

“You know James Dean died right near here?” Her voice was clear. Hannah tried to remember who James Dean was, but the only image that came to her mind was of a rancher in a cowboy hat selling sausages.

“I had a boyfriend once; he sure looked just like him. Died young like him too.”

Without looking at Hannah, the woman took three steps forward and then pulled her arm back, tossing the bucket up into the air. They watched as it arced forward high above the rail, its contents scattering in almost comically slow motion, before it landed without a sound and rolled out of sight.

"Well," the woman drawled, "that's that, I guess."

Great. Hannah thought. She’s clearly nuts.

After scanning the horizon again for another car, she sighed.

"Do you need a ride?"