The dim, canopied trail unfolds ahead. I park, and the blonde hops into the back. Pretty? I don’t know. She’s faceless in the rear-view mirror.
“Going far,” I ask?
A hitchhiker, then. Just as well—seems my wallet has a hole in it. “Little late for a read?”
“I like books,” she says, and I’m starting to think this one is a touch simple. I pull into the car park and kill the engine. The library is dark inside, and my hitchhiker remains put. Silent. Turning now, I tell her, “This is your stop—”
The backseat is vacant.
“I write because it stitches the different chapters of my life together and helped me overcome learning difficulties as child.” – the writer