A packet crinkles under my fingers when I tip the items onto my lap.
Potato chips, just like the ones they sell at the roadhouse.
The kind of chips the other kids always had in their lunch boxes when I was younger.
For a second, I just stare at it, marveling at the way the light glints off the wrapper.
“Thank you, Sir,” I mumble quietly.
“Righto,” comes the reply.
I unwrap the pie carefully, trying not to drop crumbs on the seat.
Just in case the man yells at me.
But he doesn’t seem like a yeller.
Or a hitter.
He actually seems like the kind of guy I’ve always wished I had as a dad.
The pastry is still warm enough that it curls with steam as I hold it.
I nibble slowly at first, but hunger catches up with me.
“How old are you, bud?”
Be honest,I decide.
At least about this.
“I'll be sixteen on Thursday,” I answer.
“I'm sure your Nana will be stoked to see you for your birthday.”
“Uh huh. She usually visitsusthough. We don't have a car.”
The lies come so easily.
That part about the car is true.
“You been to Longreach before?”
“Umm. Ages ago.”
Another lie.
I keep my answers short.
Don’t want to say more than I have to.
Every question feels like something I could accidentally answer wrong.
The engine rumbles steadily.
Soon the driver glances my way.
“You sure you’re gonna be okay when I drop you off?”
