An excerpt from Whose Hearts are Mountains (Literary work)

I decided to sleep for the night in a rest stop just outside of Adair, in the former state of Iowa; a place where a giant white monolith stood outside the entrance to an old rest stop. I could see very little; my headlights didn’t cut through the deep night enough.  

I should have known someone else would find the rest stop as a shelter. I spied two such individuals at the Adair rest stop, revealed by the flicker of my headlights — a dark man with long greying hair and a wizard’s beard, and a paler man with hair tucked back in a rasta cap. The two sat on the ground in front of the door. Behind them, I noted the expansive blond brick building with its glass panels in the front, and a dull glow in a back room. I didn’t doubt that the windows would be revealed to be damaged and dusty in the morning.

I considered that, in the post-wars era, the men sitting by the entrance were not truly homeless. They landed on their feet, founded a camp, and called it home.

I pulled up to where they sat and rolled down the window. “May I stay here for the night? I can sleep in my truck.”

“Sure, ma’am. Martha should be back shortly, so you don’t feel scared with just us two men.” I didn’t expect such a considerate offer on the road.

“No, that’s okay, I’ll pull my truck over here — “

“You ain’t sleeping in that truck, are you?” The unkempt white man, who wore socks as gloves on his hands, shook his fist at me. He spoke in an oddly flat voice, and he struggled with eye contact.

“Well, actually, yes, I was going to.” I could recline the seat back and stretch out a little — 

“No, we got a nice warm building. You’re staying,” the black man decided. “Martha will be back soon to be your chaperone. Would be nice if you gave us something to help with supper. ”

I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t. Was this another trap? I searched my mind for something to forestall my spending the night with them. Would they rob me? Assault me? “I have nothing to trade — “

The black man chuckled. “You got stories. Might as well get to know you better,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m George.”

“And I’m Pagan,” the other man said, not offering his hand.

I looked them over in the headlights’ glow. They looked harmless. Famous last words, I realized. On the other hand, I would probably have a good chance against them with my gold-filled backpack, which probably weighed 20 or 30 pounds.  And I was very hungry.