If you would like to come out and play with Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and the Friday Fictioneers, cllick here.
When you hitch, you catch rides with weirdos. But when you’re standing in the rain on the side of some lonely highway at midnight and a car stops, you get in. I could see it was some kind of cobbled together homemade jalopy, but it roared off down the dark road at high speed. The driver said nothing, and a black hoodie obscured his face. Faster and faster we flew through the storm, 100, 120, 140, 160. At 200, the hooded man began to laugh evilly. He threw his head back and cackled and the lightning flashed off bare bone.