Page 32 of Wayfarers

“Like crime hippy.”

“Hadn’t heard the term.”

“So she and her boyfriend tried to steal all my stuff. I caught them and got most of my stuff back but they took off with my credit card. I must have looked like an easy grift.”

I have three thoughts:

Dawn.

That’s why the rush to leave. Of course.

Sylvie can’t find out.

“That girl sounds like a real prize human,” I say instead.

“Yeah. Like, if she needed something–food, gas money, whatever? She could have asked, you know?”

I did know. Often, we’d simply asked.

We pull into the campground. “Which site are you at?” Sylvie asks.

“Keep going. Hang a right at the fork.”

“So where’s home for you? What’s next after this?”

I slump into my seat and sigh. “Um. Well. Hey, this one. On the left.”

“Is that your tent?”

“Yep.”

“Where’d you park?”

“No car.”

“How did you get here?”

“Little of this, little of that.”

“Where are you going?”

“North Carolina.”

“What’s there?”

“My mamaw. That’s Appalachian for ‘grandma.’ I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“How were you gonna get there?”

“I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make me sound like a wook.”

“I shouldn’t have used the term. It was mean. It’s one of those words that sounds like a slur when it’s not.”

“Sort of it is. To wooks.”