The man in the truck pulls over.
“What’s up?” He asks in a thick accent. It’s local.
“We have a flat,” I say, gesturing to a bike.
“Get in,” he says.
I jump into the bed of the truck and W hands me the bikes one at a time. The man moves some fishing rods around so I won’t hurt them.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“Lowell. Where do you need to go?”
I tell him and we manage logistics. We tell him we’ve been down here once before to go camping. He tells us that, when the weather’s nice, he comes up every weekend to go fishing. He loves to go early, he says, because no one is around.
“I just don’t like people.”
“Neither do we,” we say.
We ride in a content silence.