Page 7 of Baron's Boo-Boo
The sound of tires on the wet road surface makes me hesitate before I stick my thumb out.
My parents always scoffed at hitchhikers, saying they were all bums, while stories on the news always made me think they might be axe-murderers. But now that I am hitchhiking, I feel bad for ever believing either stereotype.
It was a series of super unlucky events which got me to this point, and I’m sure the same kind of thing has happened to others, too.
The car zooms past me, not bothering to even slow down. It throws up a wall of water as it passes, but I’m drenched anyway. Shivering, I try to stay optimistic, limping my way down the road as the aches and pains from my crash set in. More cars pass by, traveling in the opposite direction, but I stick my thumb out anyway. Right now, going anywhere would be preferable to walking for hours in this state.
But who would want someone so wet and dirty in their car?
I swallow another whimper.
If I give in to panic and hopelessness, I’ll never get home.
So I keep slowly trudging, keeping my ears focused for any approaching cars. I lose track of time as three more sail past; two in the direction I’m traveling and one going the other way.
My lower lip quivers after the third one disappears into the darkness. I hurt all over. My legs and feet are sore from walking, and the wet material of my clothes is chafing my skin. I’m cold, too. Shivering and scared in the dark, jumping as things seem to rustle in the grass and flying creatures—bats? birds?—beat their wings overhead.
Oncoming headlights startle me again. Even though I know this one will pass by, too, I stick my thumb out anyway. My hand trembles. The truck slows but keeps going, and I fight back an anguished sob.
One more step, I tell myself firmly.Just like Dory, but on land. Just keep walking, just keep walking.I try to hum it as a happy tune, but I hear another car just as I register the light coming up behind me.
I stick out my thumb again, turning my head to look at the car, frowning when I realize that it’s the truck that just passed me. It slowly drives around me, then pulls over on the side of the road, the light inside switching on when the driver’s door whips open and the driver jumps out of the cab.
I squint, trying to make out features, but all I can see is the man’s silhouette.
He’s big and tall. I think he’s bearded. Hell, he could be a serial killer or something but, at this point, I’m willing to take that risk.
I take a tentative step forward at the same time as the man walks toward me.
“Baron?” he asks, raising his voice against the rain still pouring down.
I stop in my tracks, then try to squint at him again. “Vince?” My voice comes out uncertain and trembling, and I can’t believe my luck has turned so significantly. “D-daddy?” Not only do Iknow my potential savior, but it’sDaddy. If anyone can make me feel better, it’s him, right? That’s how Daddies work.
“Jesus Christ, Bear, what happened?” He rushes over, seemingly unconcerned that he’s getting drenched in the rain.
Relief washes over me. My knees wobble, and I lurch into Daddy’s arms, bawling about my bad day.
“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay,” he soothes while I cling to him. “I don’t…Baby Bear, you need to slow down. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Taking deep, shuddering gulps of air, I try to calm down. Most of my story comes out in a rush as I try to explain it again, but I think I make more sense.
“…t-then my b-bike chain broke, and…and…” I pause to heave a breath, “I hit a slippery spot, a-and I skidded, and I crashed…” Just saying it out loud reminds me of all my ouchies and I start to cry again. “Ithurt, Daddy. An’ my phone smashed so I couldn’t call for help.”
“Oh, baby. I’m sorry. Let’s check you over.” He gently leads me toward the truck. He opens the passenger door and pulls a red first aid kit out from under the seat. “Hop up,” he instructs, patting the seat.
Biting my lip, I look down at myself. I’m drenched, dripping, and covered in mud. At least I’m confident the rain has washed away all traces of my accident. “I’ll make your seats gross.”
He shakes his head. “They’re heavy-duty seat covers. Waterproof and everything. Plus”—he grins, as though he’s not at all bothered by the rain cascading over us both—“I’m wet now, too.”
“I’m sorry.” I swallow roughly. “That’s my fault. You got out for me, and—”
“You needed help, Bear. It’s alright. Besides, it’s just rain. A shower will make me good as new.” He pats the seat again. “Now, up. I want to check you over.”
I climb into the cab of his truck, dropping my sodden backpack in the footwell, and he frowns as he looks me over in the dim light, carefully lifting my shirt and sleeves to get a good look at my grazes. He hisses in sympathy when he sees them.
“I don’t like the look of some of these.” His voice is soft. “There’s mud in them, and I don’t want them to get infected. But”—he sighs—“we can’t do much right now.”
“I don’t live very far away,” I tell him, then I frown. “I think. I don’t know if I was even walking the right way. I got mixed up.”
