Chris let loose what could only be called a mighty yawn, doing his best to keep his eyes on the road. The completely empty, flat, straight road that was utterly surrounded by cornfields.
The thing about trucking was that it could be boring as hell, especially when you were trucking lumber through the Midwest. Because apparently Iowa didn’t have its own trees.
But that was okay—the pay was decent enough, and it gave him something to do. More importantly, it gave him a visa, and that was what he was really after.
As long as he had a job he could stay in the US, given that he kept up on his paperwork, and really he just needed some space away from the outback. It didn’t have to last forever.
Through the heatwaves coming off the scorched pavement he could see a tiny outline. A person, obviously, probably a hitchhiker. Chris tried to ignore hitchhikers.
He didn’t really fancy getting into any of the deep shit that some people carried with them everywhere—not that it would help him this time.
The closer he got the more apparent it was that this hitchhiker needed his help.
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