Shame

door.”
    Caleb grabbed his change, and then ran around to the back of the booth and picked up the gas can. He quickly pumped the gas, then took up a spot under a streetlight on University. Thumb cocked, he waited on a ride. It had been over twenty years since he’d last hitchhiked. When the first few cars passed him by, Caleb started worrying. He looked at his watch, and then considered calling a cab. It was almost eleven thirty. The sorority was about ten miles away, and he needed to get there by midnight.
    The killer won’t make his move before then, Caleb told himself, convinced himself.
    Another car drove by. Caleb found himself unable to just stand around waiting for a ride. He began to pace, but that made him feel like a caged animal in a too-small enclosure. He started walking east, and then, between lulls in passing cars, began jogging. The killer wasn’t going to beat him to the sorority. If necessary, he’d run the whole ten miles there.
    The traffic on University was Saturday-night steady. A few drivers slowed, looked Caleb over, but then continued on their way. What are they seeing? Caleb wondered. Maybe they sensed something wasn’t quite right. He tried to give the appearance of being a harmless, out-of-luck motorist, but his act made him self-conscious. So did the reflection he kept glimpsing in storefronts. He didn’t know the stranger with the blond hair.
    Turn, thumb, and then run. Caleb’s routine took him at least a mile along University. He had this sense of being on a Cinderella schedule, and that at midnight his whole world could change. At the sound of another approaching car he turned and stuck out his thumb. Again, no luck. But he didn’t start running right away. Another car was coming, but as soon as he got a better look at it, he didn’t solicit the driver with his thumb.
    The police officer might or might not have seen him hitchhiking. Caleb turned his back on the patrol car and started walking. Don’t stop, he thought. No need to be curious or helpful. His head filled with mental messages, all aimed at the police officer: I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. He walked with measured steps and a posture that tried to exude confidence that said everything was under control and his car was nearby. He could feel eyes on his back, the cop eyeballing him with X-ray vision.
    The cruiser slowed up as it came alongside him. The officer made eye contact, inquired as to how Caleb was doing with a backward nod of his head. Caleb nodded in return to show that all was well. The cop drove on.
    The short encounter almost brought Caleb to his knees. He stood for a minute, getting control of his weakened legs, then stuck out a trembling thumb to a passing car. If he was so afraid of a cop, how was he going to face up to a killer?
    A red Camaro interrupted his self-doubts, pulling over to the side of the road. Caleb ran up to the car. As he reached for the door handle, the Camaro patched out on the pavement, leaving behind a skid mark, fumes, and taunting laughter that hung in the air even longer than the exhaust.
    Caleb shook his fist at the retreating car. “Fuck you!” he screamed. “Fuck you!”
    He offered his curse to the world. He was tired of being its punching bag, but the world didn’t seem to notice his challenge. Around him all was dark and quiet. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven forty-five. He couldn’t let his opportunity slip away, couldn’t let his time—and maybe the sorority’s—run out.
    Caleb wished he were more clever. Someone more clever wouldn’t be in his position. He would have found a way to get free without almost committing hara-kiri and figured out a better plan than hitchhiking in the middle of the night. He would have hotwired a car or cajoled a ride out of someone. His father had managed more escapes than Houdini, had never lost hiscool even when the police were closing in on all sides. His father would have done something audacious.
    Like step out and stop traffic, then use his silver tongue to get a ride.
    Caleb took a tentative step out into the street but then stepped back. He didn’t have to be like his father. There were other ways of doing things.
    Another car approached. Caleb’s expression all but willed the car to stop. Whether it was his look or just luck, the Toyota pulled over to the curb. Caleb ran to it, opened the door, and jumped inside.
    “Thanks.”
    The driver was Latino, around twenty-five, with a goatee. He was wearing black,