She is driving her old beater of a pick-up east on Highway 2. The windshield wipers intermittedly bat at the spittings of snow decorating the glass.
"A hitchhiker? Mid November is no time to be out seeing the country on foot!" she thinks.
Never pick up a hitchhiker. They might turn out to be a serial killer, and you might turn into their next victum," her conscious niggles her.
"That jacket sure looks short. And a bit worn. It probably isn't much protection from that wind."
You're just an old softie. See a stray dog, and nothing will do but you have to bring it home, even though you KNOW how your father hates dogs!
"But, this is a human being, not a dog. He can't curl up in a snowbank with his tail protecting his nose (assuming the smattering builds up to a bank... it is too hard and cold a snow to create a comfortable drift.)"
He's not even trying to hitch. He's just walking along.
Phew! Finally out of sight. "Out of sight; out of mind."
Translated into Russian and back into English as "Invisible and insane."
Rats! It is INSANE to be out walking along, not dressed for the weather, on a day like today. You have to live with yourself.
She slams on the brakes and does a U'ee right in the middle of a deserted flat stretch.
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