Black Cars and Identification

The freeway is busy with people getting off work. I stick my thumb out beside me, but don't expect anyone to help. With the way we are living these days, no one is trustworthy.

It's starting to get dark, and the traffic is thinning. I think that I won't be getting any rides tonight, but to my surprise one person pulls over. He has short black hair and sunglasses on his head. He seems like an easygoing guy, but his jaw is set and his expression is serious. I lean in and ask if I can get in. "Yes," he says and unlocks the doors.

I walk around the side and open the door, plopping down comfortably. But the seat isn't comfortable at all. He gets back onto the freeway and drives, staring straight ahead. We sit in silence for a while, but then he says, "You're Alexa Parridge."

I look at him in awe. "How do you-"

"You were born and raised in Shelaan, but you're a Newran at heart. You lost your family when you were little and-"

"Wait, how do you know all this?" I ask before he crosses the line.

He pulls down the sun visor and grabs a wallet. He hands it to me.

"What's this for?" I ask.

"Just look at the ID," he says.

I open the wallet and see his ID. He has a cheesy smile plastered on his face. He's 25 and lives in Washington. But the strangest thing is his name.

"Anderson Parridge," I whisper. I sit staring at the ID for a while. I'm aware of everything around me, the bumpy road, the black cars whizzing past on the other side of the freeway, the little plastic bag floating down the freeway.

"I thought you died in the car crash," I say. He looks at me, bewildered. "How did you know about that?" he asks.

I sigh. I really don't want to go into this.

"It started when I ran away from home," I say.

The End

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