Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch

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Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch
She set the guitar case on the pavement and stuck out her
thumb. The minivan shrieked by. She turned her head,
watched it go—no brakelights. The disappointment
blossomed hot and sharp in her gut, like a shot of iced
Stoli. Despite the midmorning brilliance of the rising sun,
she could feel the cold gnawing through the tips of her gloved
fingers, the earflaps of her black woolen hat.
according to her internet research, 491 (previously 666)
ranked as the third least traveled highway in the lower-
Forty-eight, with an average of four cars passing a fixed
point any given hour. less of course at night. The downside
of hitchhiking these little-known thoroughfares was the
waiting, but the upside paid generous dividends in privacy.
She exhaled a steaming breath and looked around.
Painfully blue sky. Treeless high desert. Mountains thirty
miles east. a further range to the northwest. They stood
blanketed in snow, and on some level she understood that
others would find them dramatic and beautiful, and she
wondered what it felt like to be moved by nature.
Two hours later, she lifted her guitar case and walked up
the shoulder toward the idling Subaru outback, heard the
front passenger window humming down. She mustered a
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