THE ALPHABET FILES

“B is for Bethannie”

Bethannie was on the move.

The blood of hundreds of generations—of her ancestors—had pressured her to “run, move.”
She giggled as she told this to herself. Because where were those ancestral voices three years ago?
Silent. But tonight, it was time to go. To run. To escape. Alone.

Her parents and brothers were happy in the commune. They were happy to conform with the
rules, the restrictions, the “community.” Why was a part-gypsy family IN a place like this? Her
desperation to take to the road was unseen in her family. She was the only rebel among their close-knit
clan, a thief in the night.

For the first time in her eighteen years of life, she had planned and taken up theft. She had
secretly worked on an old hunk of a truck she had seen at a farm several times. She had taken parts, oil
and petrol from more locations than she could keep up with. No one had seen, not even those from the
commune. She could never replicate the time spent on putting it into working shape, nor the good
fortune of seeing it at the back of the “outsider’s” farm.

From a young age, Bethannie grew to love motors after watching her father and older brother
work on them. Watching them empty the radiators or change the oil, even smelling the running motor
elated her. They had even owned a mechanic shop before joining the commune, where her father
indulged her with running commentary as he worked.

Those memories had carried her to this cold winter’s night. Now, she was happy. Free. Moving
forward. The full tank of gas had to get her closer to the city. She didn’t have any money, only a few
changes of clothes and shoes, and a family photo from before the commune, all with the nameless
truck. It would never be hers; it would be dumped.

She needed to tear herself away from these thoughts. She had to think of something else—
anything else.

A silver lining. A sound, up ahead. What was it?

In the light of the sole headings, she spotted someone walking the beaten road, all alone. It was
hard to tell if it was a man or a woman, too ruffled up in their winter garb. Why would anyone be
walking here so late? Maybe it was a ghost, or an escaped prisoner. It was too spooky.

“I mustn’t stop,” she warned herself. Stopping would be too risky, too foolish. Like stealing a
truck and driving into the city with no money, no resources… no plan.

She pulled up alongside the person, but kept the engine running.

“Cold night,” she called out to him. “Want a lift?”

There was silence between the two before, finally, “Yeah. Thanks.”
 The door was wrestled open, as if in danger of falling off the hinges. It probably was; she had
never opened the passenger door before. She giggled internally, for it was best not to put him off by
laughing out loud and appearing even crazier than she seemed. After all, no one driving this truck was
going to pass as ‘normal’ anytime soon.

To think, she had a passenger. Her passenger. Another acquisition, a small voice cackled inside
of her mind. Her passenger would be a distraction from the reminders of loss to come. He climbed stiffly
into the truck, sitting carefully on the beaten leather seats. He peered at her through the shadows, the
light lost to decades passed. Still, based on her figure, he could make out that she was smaller, more
effeminate. From what he recalled, she didn’t sound very old, but it could easily be misidentified.

“You’re a woman,” he began. “Are you sure you wanna take this risk, giving a man a lift at
night?” His voice was grated, as though he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“Why? Planning to murder me and steal my fancy ride?”

Yep, she was surely young and cheerful. Youthful, hopeful, the positivity of a life not yet lived.
Yet, here he was, thinking like a beaten eighty-year-old rather than a battered, walking forty-something
with years left to add to the future.

“Nope, not planning to rob you. Not planning to trouble you at all. You going far?”

“To the city. Should take a couple of hours if my truck doesn’t run out of gas.”

“Why did you pick me up?” He spoke above the fierce, vibrating motor, far from the modern-
day hum of a car. His low, grated voice hadn’t been pressing or insistent, barely even curious, as though
he were biting into the dark.

“Needed a distraction.” Truth, and he knew it. “Thoughts were getting morbid and needed
something to think about. There you were.”

“So if you’d been happy, I’d still be walking.”

“That’s right. But I wasn’t, not quite. So here we are.”

“We.” He was part of a “we.” For now. For a couple of hours if she didn’t toss him out before
that. If they didn’t run out of gas. His thoughts came slowly, and as rusty as his voice.

Sometime later, she spoke again. “So where are you heading? To the city, like me?”

“Forward. Just…forward. To tomorrow.”

Her brow wrinkled as Beth-Annie considered that, pondered it for a while. “Like me, I guess.
Destination forward. Next stop, unclear.”

Time passed and the motor chugged on.

“What happens if you run out of gas?”

“Then we stop. I say goodbye to the truck, and we both walk. All roads lead to the city, yeah?”

“You couldn’t buy more gas?”

 “No money. Got clothes, got some stuff, but no money.” A soft chuckle arose in the dark. “So,
I’m not worth robbing if you’re hard up.” Another pause.

“I got money. Not a lot but some. We pass a gas station, pull in. We’ll get some.”

“Won’t be much open at night, not on this road. Nearer to the city, maybe. You think they’ll
serve us, the truck being in this condition?” She paused again. “Actually, the worst that could happen is
to get stopped by a cop. Be in a bit of trouble then.”

“You don’t have a license?”

“Nope. And no papers on the truck. I rescued her from a field without troubling the previous
owners.”

There was silence. Small thoughts filled the cab between them for quite a while.

“We get to the city before dawn, then what?”

“I park Truck somewhere quiet, grab my bag, and hoof it.”

“Without money? How you gonna eat? Live?”

“I’m good at washing dishes. Sweeping floors. There’s always someone that doesn’t want to do
scut work, so I’ll make out.” Bravado laced an attempt at confidence in a young, feminine voice.

He hadn’t even gotten a clear view of her yet; he couldn’t tell how young she was, but he didn’t
want to ask. He tried not to care. But…

“How young are you?” Not how old, not “where did you come from.” Not “who are you?” Surely
just a single question wasn’t getting too involved. But it wasn’t his first question, was it?

“I’m eighteen. How about you? How old are you, my quiet passenger? And by the way, shouldn’t
we swap names, now that we’re getting so cozy in the dark?” A bite of sarcasm with a taste of a smile to
go with it.

“Forty. And I’m Adrian.”

“Beth-Annie. Wanna swap life stories?”

“Not so much.”

“Me neither. Tomorrow’s more important, right?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s all there is. Life’s one step at a time forward.”

Another long silence.

“Truck. You call her Truck, like that’s her name.” A long, loud sigh grew in the darkness.

“Yeah. I tried not to name her, ‘cos I have to let her go. Took weeks to get her running, and she’s
taking me where I want to go. I’ll miss her. Damn it! Giving you a lift was supposed to take my mind off
that. Now it’s back.” A small sniffle and a hasty swipe of an arm across her face came next.
 “Sorry.” Another silence. “Getting attached, it hurts. When you have to let go. Place, person,
animal, thing. It all hurts. Sooner or later.”

“You hurting?”

“Yeah.”

“So, life hurts. Wise words of an elder to the young. Don’t get attached. That’s your advice?”

“No. Live, get attached. Feel. But know from the start it’s gonna cost you, somewhere along the
line. So you’re prepared, so it doesn’t break you. So you can go on.”

A while later, she said, “Did you break?”

“Not quite. I can still walk on. Limping some, you might say, but still walking on.”

Dawn hinted at its arrival on the horizon when the odd light became the start of the city streets.
The gas had held out. Beth-Annie pulled into an unlit side street half an hour in and stopped the engine
by disconnecting two wires.

“This is it. We’re here. Now we walk.” They climbed out, the noise of the doors opening just as
loud as shutting them in the quiet street.

By the dim light from a streetlight, Adrian saw that she looked pretty, standing there with a
small pack on her back, country clothes, and a warm coat.

“Thanks for the lift, Beth-Annie.” He hesitated and took out a battered wallet. “Here, take this.
Don’t go on the streets. Prostitution is a killing job. This’ll help ‘till you find those floors to sweep. Those
dishes to wash.” He took out the cash, divided it carefully in two and gave her half.

“Adrian, you don’t have to do this. You’ll need it. I’ll be fine.”

“Do as I say. Take it. Be careful. Remember, life’s gonna hurt. Enjoy it, but be ready for when it
gets hard. Goodbye, Beth-Annie.” He patted the hood. “Goodbye, Truck.”

He turned away and walked off. One step after another, towards the future, away from the past.
Towards the light of another cold day.