Standing half an hour along the grass verge by the highway, my arm was getting very sore from raising that thumb.

A van coming in colorful hues honked loudly and pulled to a stop by my side. Hastily picking up my bag of belongings, I reached for the car handle. Yet the van lurked forward suddenly, and the handle slowly slipped away. The wheels rolled several feet before coming to a stop ahead. 

“Idiots,” I cursed and broke into a small run.

Inside the van, the man and woman regarded me with mild interest. Both of them long-haired and blonde. The old fabrics covering the seats was a disappointingly shade of grey compared to the mild vividness of the outside. 

I wasn’t a stranger to hippies. In fact, it was often this sort of people that would offer you a place in their ride until they decide that they had had enough of you. 

The door of the van clicked behind me, leaving me to the mercy hospitality of the hippies. The woman shifted away, leaving me space to sit awkwardly between her and the man.

The man showed no opinion for this change. He scanned me up and down through his small circular glasses, lips twitching faintly beneath brownish mustache until he asked, “You headin’ somewhere, man?” his voice surprisingly languid like a river stream.

I dumped the bag of belongings on the dusty ground. There wasn’t much I carried other than couple of old shirts and spare underwear. 

“New York,” I told him.

The man whistled and reclined against his seat, “Well, ain’t you in luck! My band’s also heading that way for a tour.”

“A tour?” I mused, breathing out heavily, “So y’all musicians?”

“What do you think?” the woman giggled; one arm settled against my shoulder as soft breath tickling the rough skin on my face. Her gold hair draped like velvet over my shoulder, “Jarvis here was a legend back in Indianapolis.”

The man—Jarvis, scowled, “Don’t you start with it, Casey Belle. I’m warning you now—”

“Fine, Jarvis,” she grabbed my arm and gave it a light squeeze, “The driver’s our bassist, Allen, and the one at the back is…” we glanced at the unconscious man slumped in the backseats, “Forget about him. He’s supposed to be behind the percussions.”

Casey Belle sang the vocals while Jarvis did the guitar. The band played country gigs and hadn’t made it to the mainstream. For now.

Jarvis strummed a country tune for us with a banjo to kill time. It wasn’t a bad song, and it was no boast back then when Casey had called him a legend. The man was great at anything with strings and makes a sound. He had his way of handling instruments.

We appreciated the soliloquy of his performance. The tune grew softer at one point, and he invited me to sing along.

“It is better for me to not ruin this song,” I smiled apologetically, “Truly, the talent of music does not come to anyone.”

“It certainly does not,” he agreed, giving the banjo a frivolous storm of strums that sent the notes flying in a torrent of skipping melody, “But it doesn’t stop us from enjoying it. Right, Casey?”

Casey hummed sweetly. Her voice angelic as she joined the careless strums. 

Jarvis nodded at her, “Go on,” he urged, “Give ‘em a show.” 

The humming grew steadier, and the clear song emerged as the first lyric of their song indulged the van in a wonderful duet. Her song became higher and brighter, weaving through the notes of the banjo and wielding it with each soulful pitch. 

“I wanna try another song, Jarvy,” she said as Jarvis worked on the ending note, “The one I told you about,”

Jarvis furrowed his brows, “Didn’t I tell you it’s too complex?”

“But that man in Ohio played it fine, and the people liked it,” she insisted, “C’mon, Jarvis, you’re more sophisticated than him, surely you can—”

“Well, why don’t you find the man in Ohio to play for you instead?” he snarled. Suddenly, he turned toward me, “It wasn’t a good song,” he explained, “that woman’s a good singer, but not so much at song writing.”

“I’d like to hear it,” I shrugged, throwing a glance at the young woman who had pretended to stare out the window. She turned back as if surprised. 

Jarvis said nothing for a heartbeat. His knuckles were pale from gripping the banjo. 

“…Fine,” the silence broke away into a plain, humble smile, “If you two must insist,” he adjusted the banjo in his lap and gave it a halfhearted strum, “Your time to shine, Casey Belle.”

Casey threw me a grateful look. Then she started teaching Jarvis on the banjo, to which Jarvis responded with much temperament and dismissiveness (“Yes, I’m aware of that”, “Just get to the point already!”).

“It’s gonna be a noisy one…” Jarvis muttered as he jammed the first notes, “Lucky I’ve memorized most of it.”

From the corner, Jarvis held a tight expression, his fingers traveling faster and more velocity as he struggled to keep on with the new song Casey had started. 

What she sang was beyond. Her voice catching the banjo in perfect harmony and pushing forward in a current of pure bliss. It was music, but better. The feat skipping and leaping like a deer through the woods. The lyrics were meaningless when the sound was so mesmerizing. She sang in absolute grace as her voice overwhelmed the mastery of the banjo.

Meanwhile, Jarvis was starting to fumble over the song. It was no exaggeration from him that the song was complex. His hand flew up and down the bars in a flash of shadowy motion, fingers pressing on and off in different notes before scurrying to the next

“Slow down a bit, dear,” he pronounced through clenched teeth. It was a shocking fact that his hand wasn’t bleeding yet, “You’re going too fas—”

His finger slipped on a bar and came out in a jarring twang.

Later that day, Casey got three stitches along her temple.

"Good thing the fragments didn't break into her eyes," the physician said as he sealed a bandage over the wound. "What knocked you over like that, kiddo?"

There was no answer from Casey. She hadn't spoken a word since Jarvis laid his hands on her. It was too sudden for any of us to notice, but he had done it. Again.

I peered in through the door frame as the physician tended to her wounds. The rest of the band wasn't there. Still napping in the van, maybe.

The old man came out and told me to make sure that she changes her medicine each day. Then, almost accusingly, he asked, "You did this to her?"

"Christ, no!" I was about to tell him that we had only met this morning. But her cold hand had squeezed over mine, tugging it hard. Her thin frame was shivering in the chill. I unzipped my jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

"Still cold?" I asked, taking her cold hand in mine, "Do you need anything? My scarf was back in the van—"

"I wanna get out of here." she blinked hard.

“Okay, okay…” Gently, I took her hands and pulled them away from her face, “Let’s leave then.”

I took her out through the back door, where the sun was sinking low along the tangerine sky, but the warmth did not persist where the sunlight hit. The chill of November seized me unexpectantly. I sneezed.

"Do you want your jacket back?" she whispered.

I shook my head, "I'm fine, you keep it for now."

She didn't let go of my hand, but when I pulled out a used tissue from my pocket and blew my nose, she shook it away and clung to me suddenly. Her body shook as each sob wrecked her in a stifling scream. Her fists landed uselessly over my chest as the cries were carried off in the cold, chilly air.

I pulled her tightly against my body, running a rough hand over and over her long, velvety hair. She looked up, and her large eyes had become a field of bloated red. 

"Why don't you come with me, Casey?” I found myself whispering, “We can go to New York, just you and I. We can have each other’s company. Start anew."

Her body tensed at the words. Then she struggled against me until she left my arms. The hollow where our warmth had once joined now a barren ground vulnerable to the wind’s treacherous assault.

"And where would I go without him?" she wouldn’t look at me, "What would I be?"

I placed a cigarette between my lips. She was still waiting—waiting for the answer that would never come. And where would I take her? I thought. When I could barely fill my own stomach. 

She tried to reach for my hand again but stopped when I took the lighter from my pocket.

"Forget it," I muttered, flicking the lighter, "Forget I ever said it."

The small flame wavered as I lifted it to my mouth.

Our paths went on in separate ways throughout the remaining trip. By the time I got down in New York, the distance between us had grown into an uncrossable crevice.

Jarvis handed me a propaganda of their tour across the U.S. Then, in the manner of a prodigal son, he told the bassist to get out from the driver's seat and claimed he would be in charge of their remaining trip to their destination.

I nodded with false enthusiasm as he boasted of the fortune they were making. All the while, I found myself checking through the foggy windows of the van where Casey sat solemnly in the back seat.

I tapped on the window, and she shifted. A smile appeared briefly, and she rose from the seat.

Jarvis saw her coming down and tried to place a hand over her shoulder, but she hastened her steps and dodged the contact.

It was the last time she'd looked up at me, her tired eyes searching over my face for an answer she couldn't find.

"Good luck in New York," she simply said. Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a ghostly kiss on my cheek. She turned and walked back to the van. A gust of wind blew her long hair sideways in the air, and she almost tripped on her heels as she stepped into the vehicle. Then the last whisp of her hair disappeared behind the fading colors on the van ,and she did not come out again.