The Truck Driver

Augusta, GA to Bangor, ME

Tank stood outside his eighteen-wheeler at a truck stop in Virginia, the crisp night air wrapping around him as he took a long drag of his cigarette. The glowing ember flared between his fingers, the nicotine settling his nerves after hours on the road. He exhaled slowly, his sharp, light brown eyes watching the steady movement of truckers pulling in and out, men hauling cargo from one end of the country to the other.

He was en route to Maine from Georgia, hauling a Walmart shipment, the same routine he had been following since he was eighteen. Now, at twenty-two, he was already a veteran on the road. The money was solid, and the solitude didn't bother him. If anything, the open road was better than being stuck at home. He loved his family, sure, but they could be overbearing. Always asking too many questions, always up in his business.

He preferred silence. Preferred peace.

As he flicked the ashes from his cigarette, something or other, someone caught his eye.

A young Black woman was moving across the lot, dragging a suitcase behind her, a backpack snug on her shoulders, and a duffel bag slung across her body. She looked jittery, her head snapping over her shoulder every few seconds as if she expected someone to grab her. The soft glow of the streetlights illuminated her face; pretty, brown skin, youthful but weary. She was dressed simply in black leggings, a sweater, and some Nikes, but there was urgency in her steps.

Tank took another pull of his cigarette before calling out.

"What you doin' 'round here with all that luggage?"

She stopped abruptly, her eyes locking onto his. There was hesitation, then a deep breath before she spoke.

"Trying to run away."

That got his attention.

"From who?"

He had seen plenty of messy breakups on the road. Women stranded at rest stops by no-good men. Some truckers were cheaters. Some were on the down low. Drama came with the lifestyle. But something about the way she said it, the weight in her voice felt different.

"My stepfather," she admitted, adjusting the straps of her bags.

Tank frowned. "Why?"

She shifted again, as if the weight of her baggage was more than just physical. Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

"Because he thinks that since I'm eighteen, he can touch on me because I live in his house."

A sharp pulse of anger flared in Tank's chest. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

"And ya mama?"

Kayla scoffed, her disgust evident. "She looked the other way. Told me to let him since he pays all the bills."

Tank clenched his jaw, flicking his cigarette onto the pavement before crushing it under his boot. He had seen and heard a lot on the road, but that? That was some straight-up evil.

"So what you tryna do? Hide?"

Kayla glanced around nervously. "I don't know. I just gotta go. I don't have nowhere to go, but I can't stay here."

Tank studied her. He knew the kind of men that prowled truck stops. Predators. Some of them would see a girl like her and take advantage. Hell, some would promise her a ride only to leave her stranded or worse.

"You need to be careful," he said, his voice low but firm. "Most truckers prey on young women like you."

Before she could respond, a deep, gruff voice called out in the distance.

"Kayla!"

Her breath hitched. Her wide brown eyes darted toward the sound before locking onto Tank's.