Garner Nash never imagined his day would turn out so good.

There he was on State Highway 28, thumb outstretched, hoping for a ride from the freezing nowhere he found himself in. Memo to self, Garner thought: Next time a truck driver wants a blowjob, give him one to avoid getting kicked out in weather like this.

Way up the highway near South Pass, Garner saw a car approaching fast. Before he could make eye contact with the driver, the car roared into view, its passenger-side window open.

Hundreds of pills flew from the car, peppering Garner like buckshot and skittering across the asphalt.

And then the car already seemed miles away.

As Garner scooped up the pills and stuffed them in his backpack, he saw dozens of tiny plastic packets and got them, too. He jumped into a ditch and crouched behind some brush, watching as Wyoming Highway Patrol cruisers flashed by in pursuit.

When engines and sirens faded in the distance, Garner took a moment to examine his booty and recognized fentanyl pills interspersed with packets of crystal meth.

He couldn’t stay on the road. With cautious steps, Garner emerged from his hiding place, his mind buzzing with possibilities. He stumbled upon an unguarded ranch where an old Mercury M-100 pickup sat. It was old and rusted, but it was his ticket to safety.

Garner’s hands shook as he hot-wired the truck — something he’d learned from a fellow drifter. The engine sputtered to life, and he was off, driving down an unmarked gravel road.

A nagging voice whispered of risks, of dangers lurking in the shadows of this newfound path. Yet, Garner pushed these thoughts aside. For now, he was on the road to easy money.

About an hour later, he swapped the M-100 for a Honda Civic in Lander and headed for Rock Springs. A guy he used to fuck in prison could tell him where to sell this shit.

Text and photo copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon. All content in this post is fiction.