I think Richard’s life changed the day the hitchhiker died while cradled in Richard’s arms. Richard must have been a little over twenty then, and he’d happened on a single-car crash at the ragged mouth of Wolf Creek Canyon. The hitchhiker, also a boy of about twenty, lay sprawled and bleeding on the pavement, having been abruptly pitched from the truck he’d caught a ride in when the truck somehow became crossed-up and tumbled several times in the shale and bunchgrass median. A mostly shattered guitar lay not far from the hitchhiker. His backpack had ejected from the bed of the truck lay along the fence that kept the nearby whitefaced cattle from milling around on the highway with the rushing traffic.
“I suppose I’m pretty bad,” the hitchhiker said. “Am I pretty bad off?” he asked Richard delicately. He lifted a bloody hand. “Am I gonna make it?”
Unable to think of anything better to do, Richard sat on the ground near the boy and lifted the boy’s head and shoulder’s into his lap. “I’m Canadian,” the hitchhiker told Richard. “I just now got a ride in that truck. Is my guitar broken?”
“A little,” Richard answered.
“I wish that truck hadn’t picked me up,” the Canadian said.
The hitchhiker didn’t say another word. Cars whooshed past. Cars stopped. People got out, stood there. Richard felt the Canadian dimming, fading away right there in his arms. Maybe for a few moments Richard closed his eyes and understood everything. Maybe he felt stars grinding slowly overtop the whole scene. Maybe Richard felt the wind stir right through him. When he opened his eyes he knew he had to let the hitchhiker go.
I saw Richard come home that evening. I saw him walking up slowly, bloodstains burning violently against his plaid shirt. Richard remained quiet for many days, his calm uneasy.
--Mitchell Hegman
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