Baker, California was not a place she wanted to stop.
Off to the east the dark sky was still coy. A gauzy gray blotch of gray began budding in the black.
She was still on the western slope when she saw the first lightning flash. She eased off the gas and glided along the wide bend of the interstate, soaring past trucks, curling down into a vast lakebed.
Soon the desert would shimmer. The summer storm’s shadows would jostle. For now it was simply dark and damp.
A few more bolts of lightning flickered through curtains of heavy clouds. They made the predawn sky shiver. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee.
Miles ahead, a long string of light slanted down through the darkness. It was like a glittering strand of a diamond necklace laid out on black velvet.
No glamor was to be found in the cabs of these westbound trucks.
Coasting down the long mountain slope on the other side of the valley toward Baker, California, on toward Barstow and then the Cajon Pass, the men and women who drove these trucks were tired. They worked too hard. They were badgered by bosses who stalked them with onboard electronics.
Then the shower hit. Hard rain muted the thin crackle of her car radio’s distant station. Then the hammering was accompanied by an irritating rhythm of screeches and scrapes.
The next time she stole a car, she’d make sure the owner hadn’t let the windshield wipers bake into oblivion.
