For a kid never used a gun, he took to it well enough when the time came. Getting a hand for it among shadows in the depths of an abandoned garage with a snub .38 from an abject local pawn. The pistol's bluing having been thumb rubbed to an oilslick rind through generations of proper use, and the grips made of an old, dark wood. Better with a blade though, at least more experienced, and his hands seemed more natural with it.
Gathering no trinkets, only a few clothes and his two close tools in a leather knapsack one midnight, the boy stole away to the interstate westbound. Before long a solemn trucker allowed the passenger aboard, he considering his own exhausted state and perceiving a sense of cautious cognizance in the hiker's eyes. A state line or two later, words having seldom filled the humming cabin, the drum and plink of hail succeed the silence. Laggards initially, night and the natural forces conspire yet. The great machine whimpers as the anemic husks of rubber which constitute its wheels crunch to a quietus in a frost shrouded asphalt lawn near a dying truck stop.