�Mitch Wrenhe?� he had said, and the way he had inflected it, like a slow question, had made Mitch listen close. �Henry's dead.�

There had been a will, which had been mandatory through Henry's employer, and a funeral and coffin had been made ready. They had no family, save a couple cousins who had drifted into the mountains, so it would be a small gathering of Henry's friends and coworkers. He had left some things to Mitch that would need sorting, so Mitch had set out to hitch back home. He had no money for a flight, and he used to like hitchhiking. He had heard it was easier this time of year because there was more pity for people who looked cold. He thought he probably looked cold because he definitely felt it.

He had hitched out of Toronto six years ago chasing a woman who had turned out to already be married. She had moved back in with her husband, which hadn't worked out so well for Mitch. He hadn't been able to find any permanent work in the prairie, but had taken on a few loose jobs, and settled into a small room with a window that looked out at train tracks and litter.

This was all gone now. The woman had gone south with her husband, and the work had disappeared. The apartment had been rented by the month, and none of the furniture had been his. He had just packed whatever belonged to him back up in his bag and left.

He was somewhere about an hour east of Dryden, Ontario. He knew there was a train he could take from White River down to Sudbury, but that was probably a ten hour drive from where he was now. The train was another ten hours south to Sudbury, and still another four hours from there to Toronto. Shit shit shit, he thought.

His pack had gotten soaked in the rain, and the garbage bag he used to cover it had torn in the gravel and leaked. He was hoping for a miracle ride from a perfect woman who always drove forty over and was going all the way. She'd have a tiny, two-seater sports car and a firm grip, and she'd really like used up and defeated men, like Mitch.

A car approached and slowed as it passed him. It was a beige box on wheels, and the panels were coated in dust and dirt. It stopped and reversed onto the shoulder, and Mitch grabbed up his bag and jogged toward it. The trunk popped as he got closer, so Mitch threw his bag in and shut it. He climbed in the passenger seat and smiled at the man behind the wheel.

�Where're you heading, son?�

The man looked nearly twice Mitch's age with bushy hair the colour of ash. It formed a crown around his scalp. He wore a white tee shirt with the word �Florida� written in cursive above a blue and orange graphic of a setting sun. His bare arms were covered in a thick fur, and he had a gold watch loosely wrapped around his wrist that jingled as he pulled out.

�Toronto.�

The man laughed. �Well, I can take you about an hour or so down the road, but I'm heading north from there.�

�That'll be great. I'm Mitch.� He extended his arm, and the old man turned toward him and grabbed his hand firmly.

�Great to meet you, Mitch!�

He spoke loudly, and with an intensity that reminded Mitch of the man who used to sell juicers on TV. He turned the radio on, and white gospel music drifted out between excerpts of sermons and religious advertisements. He didn't speak to Mitch again until signs for the highway heading north started to appear.

�Are you a religious man, Mitch?�

�No, but my brother was.�

�Was he?�

�He died.�

�Oh ... that's terrible. Was it recently?�

�It's been about three days, but the funeral was today. I got stuck in Manitoba.�

�Why didn't you fly?�

�No cash.� Mitch laughed. The old man paused for a second.

�Mitch, I've met young people like you. It's hard to make your way in this life without direction, but there is hope in this world � even today. I just met a man in Texas; he was burning for Jesus. He had all the light and hope in the world � very prosperous.�

Mitch continued to look at the old man. He wanted to open a window because the air had gotten thick and warm.

�There are young people in my community who have seen the light and are making positive changes in there lives � very positive changes. I have a place just a few clicks up this road here. I'd offer you shelter��

�Thanks, but I've got to try and get further.� Mitch looked out at a restaurant that had appeared near the junction.

�Exactly. You get home safe. Just a second,� and the old man pulled off onto the shoulder. Mitch opened the door to get out, and the old man extended his hand. They shook, then Mitch was out with his bag in the fading light, and the old man was speeding off north. Mitch headed for the restaurant. It was sometimes easier to get a ride at these roadside places, but mostly he felt hungry and beat.

He decided to sit by the window, and the waitress came over with a menu, napkin, clean utensils, and a cup of water. He asked her for a coffee first, then opened the menu as she went off to get it for him. He checked the prices. There was a soup and salad combo for three bucks, plus the coffee. Five bucks, or five fifty with tip. He'd get a ride out tonight and probably camp, or ... or what? � he thought. He was in the middle of nowhere with what seemed like a longer and longer road ahead of him. His pack was soaked through, and the rain would probably turn to snow soon, and he had already missed his brother's funeral. His head fell to the cradle of his hands. �What a shit time of year to die, Henry.�

�Huh?� The waitress was back with his coffee.

�I'll have the soup and salad.� She left again.

Mitch reached for the coffee and wrapped both hands around the steaming cup. Most of the customers looked local, which was no good for Mitch. There were no trucks out front that he had seen either; they might park them in the back, though. He drank his coffee.

�One soup, one salad.� The waitress placed the dishes in front of him.

�Thanks. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know if anyone here's from out of town � heading east?� She made a show of humming and scratching her head.

�Not that I know. Everyone here's fairly local.�

�Thanks. Can I get a top up?� She went off to get the pot.

The soup looked good. It was thick and creamy with chunks of broccoli, and the salad looked fresh. Mitch dug in, and the waitress came back to fill his cup.

�How's everything?�

�It's good.�

�You on the road, are you?�

�Yeah. I'm headed for Toronto.�

�Well, you take care. It's getting dark.�

Mitch looked out the window. The sky was black above the orange whisper of sunset that lingered on the horizon. At least the weather had changed, he thought, and he turned back down to his soup.

He heard the door swing open, then a man shouting. Mitch glanced up from his spoon to see a red jogging suit moving swiftly in from the door. It was a younger man than Mitch with thick glasses and white running shoes. His hair was thin, and sweat had formed small beads around his temples. He was screaming.

�Where's the change?! Where's the change?!�

He paced up and down the length of the restaurant. �Where's the goddamn change, goddamn it?!�

The waitress came out from behind her station.

�Get out of here, Frank. There's no change today! Go back home to your mother, for Christ's sake. There's no change here!�

Mitch put his spoon in his mouth. He figured this funny man was some local phenomenon, and there was nothing for him to worry about.

�Yes there is! Yes there is! And you're going to give it to Frank. Give Frank the change now!�

�No, Frank. Now get out of here!�

Frank stopped pacing and turned to the waitress, then moved very quickly across the restaurant toward her. She took a step back.

�Fine, Frank. Here you go.�

She reached into her apron and pulled out her order pad and a pen. Frank stopped moving and stood still. The waitress scribbled something on the top page and tore it off, then stepped toward Frank and shoved it at him. �Here!�

Frank took it from her and started to giggle softly. His glasses had clouded over. Mitch got a sudden, shooting pain in his hand and dropped his soup spoon. It bounced off the table and sounded loudly on the floor. Frank turned to look at him.

�Frank�� The waitress started reproachfully.

He walked over to where Mitch was now clutching his hand against his chest.

�Hello, brother. Hello. Hello. Hurt your hand?�

�Don't you mind him, mister,� the waitress called over. �He's harmless.� She was smiling now, too, and watching.

�Hello, Frank,� Mitch said. There were two fogged lenses over Franks eyes, and he smelled like the crisp night air. �Did you get your change?�

Frank held the piece of paper up victoriously. �Yeah. I got it!� Then he bit his lip and looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. He looked like he was piecing together some complex equation, or riddle.

�Here,� he said finally, and he thrust the paper toward Mitch. �You have it, brother brother. You have it. It's for you.�

Mitch smiled and reached out to take the paper from him. Frank grinned and exhaled loudly through his nose.

�See you!� He patted Mitch lightly and rhythmically on the back, then turned and rushed out the door.

�He's had a hard life, that one,� the waitress said, then �Can I get you another cup of coffee?�

Mitch looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. It was a chit with the name of the restaurant stamped at the top. The waitress had written �change� on it in big, loopy letters. He smiled, then folded it up carefully and slipped it into his breast pocket.

There was a loud sound of brakes pressed hard against spinning tires, followed by a hard thud. A crash came from inside the restaurant, and Mitch looked over to see that the waitress had dropped the coffee pot and it had shattered on the floor. She was looking out the front window.

�Oh, God,� she whispered, and her hand came up to her mouth.

Mitch followed her gaze out the front to where a car was stopped on the highway. It's headlights shone on the figure of a man in a red jogging suit lying down on the road.

�Shit.�

Mitch got up and ran out to the road, and to Frank. He was still breathing lightly, but blood was pooling underneath him, and a wet, broken sound came with each inhale. His glasses had come off, and his eyes stared up into the black night. Mitch took his hand and held it tight.

�Oh, brother�,� he started, but Mitch cut him off.

�It's OK, Frank. It's OK.�

A woman approached them from behind Mitch. Frank coughed softly, and blood misted into the steam of his hot breath. �I'm, I'm��

�Shhh.� Mitch tried to quiet him.

��dying.�

He was dying. It had been a terrible accident. The driver had gotten out of his car and come around to where Mitch held Frank's hand. He was deeply shaken, and he held himself and rocked. His whole body shook in the beam of the headlights.

�Shhh. Quiet down, Frank.� Mitch's eyes flooded. �I'm here, brother. I'm right here.�

Frank's body shuddered. He was gone. Mitch let go of his hand and stood up, backing away. The woman behind him was crying, too, and she looked to Mitch with soft eyes. A police car pulled up quietly, and the officer stepped out to survey the scene. He called for an ambulance on his radio.

Mitch walked back to the restaurant where the waitress was now standing in the doorway.

�How terrible. How absolutely terrible.� She let Mitch in to collect his things. The coffee pot was in pieces all over the floor, and hot coffee had puddled around the shards of broken glass. He pulled out some money and put it down beside his salad, then lifted his bag onto his back and walked out.

The woman from the accident was there. A scarf bloomed from the neck of her jacket, and her hands were tucked in under her arms. Her hair blew lightly in the night breeze. She was looking at Mitch, and he knew she wanted to say something to him. �I'm heading east if you need a ride.�

The light from inside caught the muted angles of her face, and the blue of her eyes shone out at him. She pointed across the lot to where her car was parked. It had Florida plates.

�I'm on my way to Montreal,� she said. �We can go through the night if you'll split the driving with me.�

Mitch nodded.

�I'd like to rest for a bit, but I don't mind driving. It'll be good to focus and just steer ahead for a bit.�

He got his bag in and sat beside her in the front. They pulled out past the accident. �Were you in the restaurant?� he asked.

�Yeah.�

�I didn't see you there.�

�I was there. The soup was good.�

He forced a smile because it had been good soup, and she was going to take him home.

�That man didn't need to die back there,� he said, after a few moments of quiet. The lights passing overhead painted their bodies bright, then dark.

She looked over at him from behind the wheel, and her eyes were clear in the shadow that moved through the car. �No, he didn't, but maybe death isn't always about the needs of the ones that die.�

Mitch looked back at her and listened. He had to move on � had already moved on from the prairie, and from the rain and the old man who had come from Texas. He realized, then, that he didn't know her name.

�I'm Mitch Wrenhe.�

�Nice to meet you, Mitch. I'm Carrie.�

He sat back and tried to think. He would tell Carrie about his younger brother in a while, and maybe find out more about her and what brought her up here. They would drive down past the lakes to Toronto, and he would visit Henry's grave to say goodbye. He would meet with his brother's lawyer and do what was needed of him, then maybe he would stay. Maybe there was something there for him, like a decent job, or a woman that wouldn't run back west to her husband. It was still very far off, but it felt much closer now. He might even go on to Montreal, or head south into the states and down the coast toward the gulf. It would be spring soon, and he felt suddenly very alive.

PEACE - Tristan

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