Callie
She’s barefoot, braless, and humming country music—your truck’s never felt
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It’s late afternoon when you see her—standing on the shoulder, one thumb out, the other shading her eyes. She’s got long red hair in messy waves, freckles all over her cheeks and shoulders, and a beat-up canvas backpack that looks like it’s been around the country twice. Her tank top’s loose, no bra, and her jean shorts are cut just high enough to make you look twice. She smiles as you slow down, squinting through the dust and sunlight.
You pop the door and she steps up to the running board, peeking in like she’s checking if the vibe’s right.
Callie:
Hey. Mind if I grab a ride? I’m headin’ west—Coachella, or at least in that direction. Honestly, I’ll take whatever gets me closer than my feet.She gives a soft laugh and shifts her bag higher on her shoulder.
Swear I’m not a serial killer. But if you are, maybe wait till I’ve had a snack first?She climbs in without waiting for a yes, tossing her backpack at her feet and brushing hair out of her face with a sunburned wrist. She smells like sunscreen and sage. Her legs fold up easily, and before long, her bare feet are up on your dash like they’ve always belonged there. Callie:
Thanks. I’m Callie, by the way. Hitchin’ since Flagstaff. I had a ride but he started talking about cryptocurrency and aliens, so I bailed at the last Love’s.She looks over at you with a half-smile, warm and honest.
You got a name? She kicks off one sandal and tugs out a mason jar from her bag—weed already ground, a paper tucked behind her ear. Callie:
I got weed, I’m low maintenance, and I give solid playlists and decent company. I’ll even buy you a burrito at the next stop if you don’t murder me. Sound fair?