After I left the Wayfreight behind, I'm approaching Wells when I see a teenaged boy standing on the far side of the freeway beside a beat-up gray Honda Accord. He's waving his arms for help but no one is stopping. Check my mirrors and slow quickly. Brakes grab slightly to the right. Wonder if I have air in the hydraulics. Check it later. Roll across the median, check the traffic and accelerate across the eastbound lanes. Skid to a stop beside him and he hops over the door to sit beside me.

"Thanks for stopping," he says with a grin. Extending his hand, he adds, "Mark Tanner." His eyes drop to my tits and roam over my crotch before returning to look me in the face once more.

He doesn't want me approaching the Honda. Something's fishy, so I shut off the ignition, pull the keys and walk over.

In the corner of my eye, I see a young girl, barely fourteen, sitting in the back seat of the Thunderbird. She wears her brown hair in a ponytail. She has on a tee shirt, jeans and white, canvas sneakers. I've seen her before, starting in early July of the same year, 1984. She seems real and she always shows up when there's going to be trouble.

Déjà vu is weird. Hallucinating in broad daylight is nuts.

Hell with it. Continue the story.

Mark scrambles out of the Bird and comes after me, calling, "Whoa, whoa, where you goin', honey?" He runs up to me, reaches for my elbow but he misses and stumbles.

"Open up the hood," I say, my fingertips touching the hood.

Meanwhile, the girl climbs out of the T-bird and approaches slowly, staying back to watch, I guess.

Mark says, "Look, I just wanted you to give me a lift into that little shit hole of a town." Reaches for my shoulder, perhaps to push me away but I've seen what's inside the car so I take his hand and bend it back. Drops to his knees and yells, "Ow, let go' me, you psycho bitch!"

"Mark," I say, applying gentle pressure on his palm until he is quiet. "Mark," I say again, trying to get his attention.

"What?" he grunts.

"Don't try to grab me, okay?"

Release him and he dives for my knees. Take one arm, step around, twist it behind him and set one knee in his lower back, pushing his face into the gravel. "Mark," I say again, "I'm going to release you, but if you grab me again, I'll put you out and handle this without you. Nod if you understand." He nods, scraping his face on the gravel.

While he's recovering, I step around to the driver's side, bend down and look inside. "Are you okay, ma'am?" I ask the skinny blonde in the front seat.

She stares at me wide-eyed and shakes her head. Her knees are drawn up to her chest. Has a little afghan pulled around her body. Looks like the seat cover and she's naked under there. I hear Mark getting up, so I say softly, "I'll be back to help you."

Turning, I watch him approach, his hand hiding something behind his leg. Figure it's probably a knife from his boot because I would have found it in his pocket when I had him on the ground. He telegraphs his move, swinging the four-inch blade wide. Stepping inside, I turn and slam my heel on his foot as I take the hand with the knife and twist it, hip throwing him to the ground. Keep my knee on his carotid until he passes out.

Get up and walk to my trunk, folding his knife and pushing into my hip pocket. Take out my duffel and a roll of duct tape. Use the tape to cinch up Mark's wrists and ankles. Then I kick him under the Honda.

The girl in the white sneakers walks over to Mark, drops to one knee, looks at him and then looks at me.

Open the driver-side door and squat. From my duffel, I take underpants, a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Hand the clothes to the blonde, but she just stares at me so I set the clothes on the center console. "Hey," I say softly, "This your car?" She shakes her head. "Where's home? Reno?"

Shakes her head again and says softly, "Melanie."

Nodding, I say, "Melanie. My name's Jill Price. You a California girl, Melanie? A surfer?" To my surprise, she nods with just a flicker of a smile. "No shit. LA?"

She shakes her head quickly like a little girl, even though I put her at about sixteen. "Near Pismo," Melanie whispers with just a bit of a smile again—straight, white teeth. She picks up the tee shirt.

"Pismo Beach," I say, frowning. "Yeah, I went through Pismo Beach in 1965 with a couple girlfriends. A campground and sand dunes, I think."

Melanie gives a little giggle. "I wasn't even born yet." She drops the afghan, revealing her girl body, and pulls on the tee shirt. Melanie lifts her butt to pull on the underpants. She's a real blonde, haired over and bikini tan lines. She pulls on the jeans, which fit her pretty well, and rolls up the cuffs once.

I hear Mark groan under the car. Melanie seems to ignore the sound. "Any of this shit yours, Melanie?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. Melanie opens the door and steps out, stretching. In her bare feet across the gravel, she walks over to my car and stands beside it, just looking.

I respect that, not touching without permission. My bag and the tape go back in the trunk. "I'm heading west, Melanie. If you're heading that way, hop in." I open the driver's side door and stand watching her.

Melanie looks at me. "Jill," she says.

She could be really fucked up so I wait.

She looks at the car again. "This is a Ford Thunderbird, right?"

"1963," I tell her with a nod. "Called a Sports Roadster."

"What do they call this paint color, Jill?"

"Silver blue metallic."

Got one from a promotional brochure around here somewhere. I'll find it. Here it is—1963 Ford Thunderbird Sports Roadster.

She repeats the paint color in a whisper. Looking up again, she says, "You rescued me."

Exhale through my nose, wondering how long this shit is going to take. Besides, something about Melanie has begun to bother me.

"So I owe you big time, right?"

I take a deep breath and sigh. "Not how it works, Melanie. You don't owe me shit."

"What is that? Some kind of code?" she asks, tilting her head and looking at me.

Suddenly, I realize what bothers me about her. Ever since she said that I rescued her, Melanie's demeanor has begun changing noticeably. She has become more aware and more . . . calculating. Nodding, I watch her as I say, "I guess so."

"I've never heard of a code like that," says Melanie.

"It's something you assume when you take responsibility for your life, Melanie," I say, giving her a little of the edge—see if she can take it as well as dish it out. Besides, Mark is waking up, twisting around to look at us. Probably hears us talking.

"When I take responsibility for my life," says Melanie. "Like I haven't yet." Shake my head and she says, "Jill, I grew up sheltered but I'm not stupid. And I'm not fucked up if you're thinking that."

Purse my lips and glance west. That's my future calling. Should be on my way to Reno for a job interview, not discussing philosophy with a spoiled, manipulative California surfer bitch.

"Okay, I get it, Jill," says Melanie. "You own this Thunderbird. You live by a code."

Turning to her, I ask, "Melanie, you want to go back home or not? If not, your future's working his way loose over there and I have business in Reno."

"Thanks, but I can take care of myself. Still have Mark's knife?"

Pull it out of my pocket and toss it over. She catches it easily. She turns and begins to walk back across the gravel to the Honda, but stops part way and turns to look at me. A truck roars by and billows the air.

"You want some cash?" I call out, wondering if I'm doing the right thing leaving her.

"He owes me," Melanie says. "I'll take his."

Shrug, slide into the seat, start the engine and go.

Harmless, irreverent and amusing—now and then. My kind of people.