Five Good Miles

When I first left prison, my first thought was to stretch my legs. The jeans they gave me, five years out of fashion, no longer fit me, and every old rip and stain reminded me of the world I left behind when I let myself get caught. I did it because I was tired, and more so because I was hungry.

I walked five good miles before I started remembering those two feelings. The dry earth on the side of the road wasn’t as hot as the fresh asphalt that sliced a clean cut through the landscape, black and more hostile than the wild things that used to roam it. I guess I used to be one of those things. I stuck to one side, though no cars came down, and none of them would have picked up a stray like me those days. Just before I got out, a new guy said that hitchhikers started murdering people recently, so nobody picked them up. I think it’s the other way around, murderers started hitchhiking.

Scaring people out of kindness never did anyone any good, and after five years, and five miles on foot, I knew I couldn’t rely on kindness to make my way out here.

I kept walking, but not down the road, suspecting that, somehow, it would take me right back where the journey started. When it bent in a sudden corner, swerving as if to miss something, I swerved the other way, hoping that the way home still knew me.