I kept my eyes on the road. Alfie was an utterly ridiculous name for a grown man, yet somehow it fit him perfectly.
"Thanks for stopping by the way," he added. "I was starting to think I might have to walk all the way to the next state line, and while I am committed to my journey, I feel like there's a limit to how much sweating one person needs to do in a single day."
I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Where are you headed?" I finally asked.
It was a mistake.
"Oh, that's a great question!" Alfie said immediately. "Short answer? Forward. General direction... hopeful. Specific destination?" he paused and shrugged. "Well, I suppose that's still a work in progress."
I glanced at him despite myself. He was looking out the windshield like that was a completely reasonable answer.
"You don't have a destination," I said flatly.
"You don't seem to have a name," he returned with a wide smile. "Plus, I didn't say I didn't have a destination. I just don't have it figured out yet. It's better that way, you know? Thatway you avoid disappointments and keep yourself open to happy surprises."
I didn't know what to do with him, so I focused back on the road. If he didn't want to give me a destination, I'd just kick him out when I got tomynext stop and be done with it.
He shifted slightly in his seat, then turned toward me again. "So," he said, bright as anything, "do you really not have a name, and if so, can I continue calling you Mr. Batman? Because if I'm being honest, I'm quite fond of it. It's very fitting. You've got that strong and mysterious thing down pat."
"No."
"No... you don't have a name?" he asked.
I shot him a look that would normally cower even the seediest of criminals. And he smiled at me.
"Crowe," I finally responded.
He lit up.
“Crowe,” he repeated, like he was testing it. “Oh, I like that. That’s a good name. Very—” he waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word “—solid. Slightly dramatic. In a cool way, not like theatre-kid dramatic. Although, to be fair, I do enjoy theatre, so that’s not an insult, just a clarification.”
I clenched my jaw. How was he still talking?
“Is that your first name or your last name?” he asked.
“Last.”
“Oh! Okay. What’s your first name?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He hummed, like that was interesting rather than the end of the conversation.
“Okay,” he said easily. “Crowe it is.”
Silence.
I waited.
Maybe—hopefully—he was done.
“I have a blog,” Alfie announced.
Of course he did. I fought not to roll my eyes. And squashed that teensy seed of curiosity that tried to bubble up.
I also didn’t respond.
“It’s mostly travel stuff,” he went on despite my nonverbal queue for him to keep it to himself. “Well. Travel-adjacent. It started as, like, documenting the journey, but then it sort of turned into advice and stories and occasionally warnings about gas station bathrooms, which, by the way, are wildly inconsistent and frankly deserve a rating system—”
