Holding Patterns
@answerthunderscall
Sometimes he gets in his truck and drives. No destination in mind. No plan. No purpose. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks, sometimes for months. He doesn’t know it but it’s built into his DNA. The need to just take to the road and wander. Go where circumstances take him. And this time around they see him nearly across the country from where he started. Dead smack in the middle of east bumble nowhere, New Mexico.
He doesn’t mind it. Not really knowing where he is. That’s half the point of trips like this. Finding places new to one’s self. Seeing what’s too be had, grabbing a job for a week or two and then moving on. Little towns are generally the best finds and he’s just a few miles outside one, when he notices the vehicle pulled over on the shoulder.
A cloud rising out of the open hood. Heat waves in the air distorting the form hunched over it. Back to the highway. And the itch to stop doesn’t really hit him until after he’s passed them by. The conscience his mother had given him, tugging at the collar of his shirt, like she used to when he’d forgotten something in his hurry to get out the door.
“Damn it.”
It’s breathed, amid his eyes finding the ceiling. The wheel of his truck rotated just enough to work his way onto the shoulder. Throwing it into park and switching off the engine. Another second and he’s climbing out. Shuffling back towards the the guy that’s having engine trouble in probably one of the worst places to have engine trouble. It’s gotta be at least a hundred and two by the feel of the air on his skin.
Bastian stops a respectful distance away, hands shoved into the pockets of over worn jeans. The drawl in his voice lazy, and not at all reflective of where he comes from.
“Ya need help?”
