"Smoke" by Craig Terlson I'm about to ask the driver his name, except I catch a glimpse of his hands and it throws me. Red lines criss-cross the skin like a map of grid roads carved in flesh. The only thing he's said to me was the question he asked when I first got in. "Smoke?" I didn't know if he was asking if I did, or if I wanted one. I just said "No and thanks," separate like that. His car smells like smoke. There's also a metal smell I can't identify. But I'm thankful as hell for the lift. I was starting to think no one would pick me up. I was either looking at walking the next twenty miles to the city or finding some abandoned barn to sleep in. He looks over at me and sees me looking at his hands. He takes a hand off the steering wheel and rotates it in the air -- like he was wondering where it came from. I think he's about to tell me he works the oilfields or he's in the rodeo or something. But he just puts the hand back on the wheel and eases the Ford through the long curve of highway. I've hitched enough to get past being scared of drivers. I used to get a bit tense, even turn down a ride if they looked suspicious. But not anymore. I've had dozens of rides, and nothing has ever happened that I couldn't handle. A small town lifts out of the horizon. I know it's the last one before we hit the city. He slows the car down. I look out the window at dark buildings and the grain elevator that looms overhead. A gas station with two ancient pumps shines a dull yellow light. Across a gravel patch, an even smaller clapboard structure has a red sign that says FOOD and a light that's whiter, fluorescent looking. The driver still doesn't say anything when he pulls into the diner. As he's getting out he mumbles, "Smokes." Or maybe he just says smoke, I'm not sure. My body aches from all the walking I did today, and it's my muscles that tell my growing fear to just chill out and take the ride. In fifteen minutes, I can get him to drop me somewhere where I can find a shelter, or a cheap motel where I can talk the owner into letting me stay if I clean the bathrooms. The driver comes out of the diner, walks to the back of the car and pops the trunk. I hear some rustling and clunking in the back and twist my body around to see what he's doing. When he slams the trunk, he looks through the back window straight at me. He has this tired look and there's a weird moment where our eyes are sort of locked. Muscles or no muscles, I figure it's time to bolt. As I open the door, he moves to the passenger side and stands in front of me. He's not really blocking my way, but it feels that way. "Smoke." His voice is raspy. "I told you I don't. I'm going." I try to brush past him but he moves and I bump into his chest. "Smoke," he says and nods his head toward the diner. I look down and see he's carrying a dusty jerry can. I can hear the gas sloshing in it. "I don't think so," I say. "Smoke." He says and puts his hand on my shoulder. I jerk my shoulder, trying to shake his hand off, and he pinches hard. "Ow. Fuck. What are you doing? Let me go you, asshole." "Smoke." He nods his head again. Now he's not just pinching but his whole hand is grasping the space between my neck and shoulders, and the pain brings me to my knees. He motions for me to stand, then gives me a small shove between the shoulder blades. I walk toward the diner. He follows. I can still hear the gas sloshing in the can. The door whines when I open it and step in. I have no idea what this guy said to these people, but they all look like deer staring into headlights. "What's wrong with your--" as the words leave my mouth, I feel the back of my head struck with something hard. It feels hot and I have a sick sensation of liquid flowing down my neck. The floor rises up to meet me. I watch the feet of a woman with white nylons scurry over to me. She bends down and tries to say something but I just hear a ringing. The outside edge of her starts to blur. Now I feel really wet and it's not just coming from me. The thick smell of gas is all around me. Voices rise above the ringing and I can almost hear what they're saying. Then like the snap of a whip I hear a sound that I know is a match being struck. I think the white nylons scream. I have a word on my lips, it dangles on the edge, but I can only think it, no sound escapes. With a whoosh every ounce of oxygen is sucked out of the room. The word goes with it. About the Author: Craig Terlson's illustrations and comics have appeared in newspapers and magazines across North America. Lately, he's been interested in stories that last longer than several panels. Email: craig@terlson.com