The car was a 1940 Lincoln Cabriolet, black and white with broad white-walled tires. Its top was down, and, as it neared, crunching and kicking back the dirt of the road, I saw a man at the wheel and a pretty yellow-haired girl sitting in the front, and there was also what appeared to be a third person sitting bolt-upright in the back seat. It was as out-of-place in that desert as a sailboat would have been, and it was the kind of car you knew had to carry stories with it, but I had no intention of finding out what those stories told. "Let's start walking," I said. "Just don't even look at them." "We should ask them for a ride." "No." I looked at Simon, then put my head down like I didn't even know or care about that car coming up alongside us. I began walking forward, just looking at the ground, listening to our feet, the scattering sounds of tires on the gravel and dirt of the road. I warned Simon again, "Don't even look at them." So I just concentrated on not paying that car any attention. I could hear Simon following along, scooting his feet in the rocks and dirt. And it wasn't until later, until it was too late for both of us, that I found out Simon was sticking a thumb out to beg a ride. Excerpted from In the Path of Falling Objects by Andrew Smith All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
