The back seat is filled with boxes. Some of them have mailing labels, all taped up and ready to go. Some are open, scattered around the seat and floor. It seems like every woman he comes across lately has a small business. Bitches be making trips to the post, he thinks. It causes a little laugh to escape his nose. It’s barely audible with the dry highway heat whipping through the open windows. The sun beats down making the old black Cadillac hot. A few of the packages look wet. One, buried under others, sits in a small, dark, sticky puddle.
“Hey, what do you sell?”
She smiles. Hitchhikers are her favorite. Business has never been better.