He was alone, standing on the gravel lined shoulder of the highway, just another person standing in the rain. He was eighteen years old, wearing a knit cap with long brown hair, tangled and matted from the rain, spilling out of it. He wore a black trench coat that was considerably too large for him and dark blue jeans that were almost black due to the quantity of rain water they had absorbed. He looked,confused, lost, possibly under the effect of some unknown drug. He stood, alone, rain pouring down his hair, with his thumb thrust outward, trying to hitch a ride. He spotted a big, silver minivan coming his way and stood on the tips of his toes, waving his arms over his head, trying to get the driver's attention.

The driver of the minivan was a woman in her late forties named Ellen Strawfield. She was headed into the next town to visit an old friend of hers from school. She saw the boy, jumping up and down like a monkey on crack, arms waving, water flying from his hair, and was a bit wary of pulling over. He didn't look threatening. If anything, he looked slightly mentally incapacitated, maybe a victim of those ADD diseases people were talking about these days. There didn't seem to be much muscle underneath his coat. She briefly wondered if he might be carrying a knife, but dismissed the thought and pulled over. She rolled down the passenger side window.

"Hello, ma'am. Could you please give me a ride? I've been standing out here for hours." He said. There was a soft, desperate edge to his voice that made him sound much younger than he was.

"I don't think so. You see, I have a rule about picking up hitchhikers. I'd be glad to call someone for you on my cell phone."

"Ma'am, please. I go to college over in New York, but my father died last week. My mom lives a few towns over and I just have to go help her. The bus I was taking broke down and I don't have any money. If you could just give me a ride as far as you can take me, I'd really apreciate it. Please, I've been standing here for hours. My feet are wet and cold. I'm begging you. Please."

Mrs. Strawfield was still aprehensive.

"I don't know..."

"Please. I'm all my mother has. She's terribly broken up about all this."

Mrs. Strawfield unlocked the door with the push of a button.

"Okay, I can give you a ride into the next town." She said.

The Hitchhiker's face lit up as he opened the door and climbed into the van.

"Thanks."

She was about to get rolling again when the boy snarled: "Get the fuck out of the car."

She looked at him, puzzled for a moment. That voice, that low growl, it was so different from the voice that had just coerced her into opening the door.

"Pardon me?" She asked.

The boy began to scream:

"You heard me! Get the fuck out of the car, lady! Get the fuck out now! I'm crazy, lady! I'll bash your fuckin' head open and leave you on this highway! Get out! I'll kill you!"

Mrs. Strawfield was so shocked. She looked at him, eyes blazing, spittle hanging loose from his chapped lips. She had never heard such profanity and violence come out of a person's mouth before. It was as if this kind, sweet voiced boy had somehow materialized into the devil himself. She was terrified.

"Get out! Get out, lady! Don't mess with me! I'll kill you! I swear to God I will kill you without thinking!" He screamed again.

For an instant, Mrs. Strawfield did not move, then the boy's hand made a violent swipe for her and she was clawing open the door.

She tumbled out of the minivan and fell to the slick pavement. The boy moved into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Then he took off, tires squealing and engine screaming. Mrs. Strawfield could have sworn that she heard maniacal laughter as the van sped down the highway.