With No Prospects
Ennis watched the land get eaten by the tire's huge treads, imagined that they were leaving grooves in all the dust behind them, like those crumbs to the forest except there were no parents coming to find him, and hell if there were any witches out in Signal. Sure never had seen one in Sage, and he doubted Signal was much bigger.
Sun started stirring about two hours short, according to Derro Boyd, the man driving with two stubby fingers wrapped on the wheel and the rest shoved down into his belt, thumb sticking up higher than Ennis's had hitching this ride, the bucking bronc winking in the light whenever he adjusted his seat.
"Smells like a windstorm," Derro said in his scratchy gravel voice, looking over at Ennis like he expected something in return for the offering.
"Don't smell nothing." Ennis twisted his fist around his paper bag and tucked it in further under his jacket.
Derro leaned close, fixing a sausage finger like a gun. "Comin' for sure." The gravel pattered all over Ennis's face in the form of spittle.
Ennis nodded, huddled down, and leaned his head back, letting no mistake be made of his intentions to sleep for the rest of the drive.
He woke to the sun burning a track scalp to collarbone and Derro knuckling his shoulders, telling him he'd best get his scrawny ass out now or he was going to be crossing the state line by the end of the night, like it or not. Ennis stamped his boots, thanked the man, and started to climb down.
"Keep your head down," were the last pebbles of wisdom offered, and Ennis tipped his hat, slammed the door, and found, oddly enough, that the wind was strong enough to force his hat low and gaze earthward.
The next time he raised it, the sun burned again, but this time it was scalp to toes, and hell if he knew what it meant, but he had to admit it was the finest thing he'd ever felt.