The Gospel of Hitchhiking

Faye drifted, dream-like except for the layer of grit and sweat that clung to her skin when she hitchhiked, thumb pointed impudently. She barely recalled where she came from, or where she was going; she always left behind the same trail of dust, always followed the same meteors flaring overhead.

The monotony of Earth made her itch.

She stood just so: back arched, exaggerating her curves, leaning on one leg, hand on hip. A gun jutted from her exposed thigh.

Only perverts stopped for waif-like girls, but every healthy male stopped for the scantily dressed.

She discovered that when she accepted a ride from a man with a kindly smile. The loose skirt she wore floated around her knees; while he asked her where she was going, his hand found its way to her hem.

That was the first time Faye punched someone, as far as she can remember. Her knuckles were split; blood seeped between her fingers. The wound was raw and ugly for days afterward. For the first time since she awoke, Faye felt the little thrill of pain that told her she was real.

Faye smirked and gripped her gun as a car pulled up beside her.