text: DRAFT, looking for feedback on character development and plot. Thanks! "Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 km/h zone. Between the two bumper stickers on my 2016 midnight black Toyota Sienna, there was a Canada flag and a glossy 5.11 Tactical sticker. The latter, I suspect, was subconsciously telling her I was one of them: on her side, a *good guy*. I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my passenger seat. "Medical and survival stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a cautious civilian," I said, "There's no reception up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rear-view as I thanked her with a plastered smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanour, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that quells any anxiety or worry. One where I can look a cop in the eyes and somehow transmit the message, “I’m safe, I’m harmless, I’m on your side.” I laugh to myself while knowing I talked my way out of it again. I keep a cool exterior. On the inside, though, I'm a nervous wreck. But I *am* a good guy - I got passing grades in university, where I majored in psych, I pay my taxes, and I make the greatest effort to always tell the truth. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drove the next 48 km in silence. One after another, the officer’s questions flashed through my memory as I scrutinized my answers for any grain of truth. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. It was true: through this town and the next ten to come. There’s no time to stop and linger when you’re about to leave a fresh trail of blood. I signalled and put my van back in drive. I pressed the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. “Where are you heading? Where are you coming from?" To both questions, I had given the same answer: “Vancouver.” It was mostly true. I’m doing a big circle route up Highway 99 and then back down through Highway 1, driving about ten hours with no real destination or plan. Just a return to where I started, with a little detour along the way. “Why are you doing that?” “Because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom.” Partially true. Gas is $1.75 per litre tonight, costing me nearly $130 to fill up my tank - that's not so cheap monetarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. “And why are you doing this at four o’clock in the morning?” “I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads.” That was true. “Who do you know up here?” She had asked. ”Nobody. Just passing through." Another truth: I don’t have a single friend in the world. I’m going to give myself a solid 100% for truth. I can rest easy tonight knowing I haven’t lied. “We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she had smiled sincerely. The scenario continued to replay. That was a close one. I can see her face in my mind’s eye so vividly it’s almost like she’s still here. I put a hard rock playlist on to drown out the flashbacks, blaring. The music does its job and soon I am pacified, soothed by the riffs and melodic, passionate singing. The flashbacks seem shorter and further apart. Why do I have two distinctive bumper stickers on my otherwise generic van, one might wonder. It’s an identifiable mark, and no one in my profession drives a snowflake ride. We all want to blend in. “He was so nice and normal, I never would have expected it!” is what the neighbours all end up saying. Mine is a test of reverse psychology. I don’t want to fit the stereotype profile. It’s like the unmarked cop cars who always try to blend in: you can spot them from a mile away. They are clean, modern cruisers in one of three makes with no markings, no trailer or roof rack, no Learner's decal, no business logo, no "baby on board" and sometimes they even have front police fenders. They don’t try hard enough to pass for an individual going about their daily life. That’s what I aspire to fit because truly nobody is a statistic. If I look too generic, I’ll stand out. So I try to pass instead for an upstanding, moral patriotic citizen. And in the back of my mind I’m constantly trying to convince myself it’s genuine. *Maybe she is still around though*, I cautioned myself. A simple reminder to drive according to the rules. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit; I don't care. Two could play at my game. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again. As the flashbacks fade, I’m left with a little more brain space to think about other things. Like my fears around getting caught. I’ve been at this hobby for two years now and the paranoia is starting to take a toll: looking over my shoulder when I exit the van. Listening to the news reports on the radio and wondering just how much they know, or when somebody will tip them off. Dash cams exist these days; it’s not like it was back when old man Willie was haunting the area. I’m not the only one to drive the streets. Overhearing the talk in small town cafes and bars. The anxiety floods me and at once mixes with the excitement and thrill of the hunt. I’m a wreck. My nerves are shot. I just want to claw out of my skin and become someone else. Someone with less ghosts, less haunted. I have too much internal tension to really enjoy what I do nowadays, but once you get started it can be hard to stop. I'm passing through Pemberton and it takes all of five minutes to slip beyond the village. Just beyond that are several rural residences, becoming fewer and further between. A road sign to my right warns, "Check your fuel. Next service 96 km." I have three quarters left in the tank. Check. Something else to my right: a figure. A thumb, beckoning. "Hey! Hey you!" I could sense the man’s desperation building as I drew nearer. "Stop! Pick me up!" Now waving. There shouldn't be anyone here on the outskirts of Pemberton. It's not a comfortable walking distance from town and there's nothing but trees and highway. Just then I saw the officer’s smile flash through my memory. “That’s fine, drive safe!” She had said. I shuddered recalling her oblivious sincerity and how easily I had talked my way around everything. I hate telling white lies because I’m a good person and no good person ever lies. My brain hurts. I pressed the gas hard and accelerated around the man, past him. I don't care for company. My thoughts keep me warm. I know this highway well and my favourite stretch occurs between here and the next village, Lillooet. There is no cell service. The roads twist and turn like rapids. No cars are to be seen for ages. I picked up speed and relaxed into my grey, reupholstered seat. Liberation. Even the most inhumane among us need to come up for fresh air every once in a while. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight blue to a pale, almost pastel blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to the north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. Why hadn’t I picked up that hitchhiker? I pondered. I had the perfect opportunity to strike and the savage blood thirst to match it. This wouldn’t be my first trip around the rodeo either: after two years I was not lacking in the experience department. I change my route every time but the method stays the same. Quick and easy, slice and dump, early morning in rural isolation. This had been a nice landscape too because the cliffs abound. Nobody would have noticed for days. Time and distance pass, as they tend to when one is lost in labile emotions and racing thought. The music is keeping pace and the winding road is having a soporific effect on me. I welcome it: anything to lull me to sleep. And I need sleep. Sleep is important because it helps one process the events of the previous day. Sleep is elusive because the past two years have been eventful. When the mind twists and turns vengeful plots like the mountain road, rest doesn't come easy. When a war between guilt and integrity burns inside you, your strained eyes stay wide open. And I *am* a good person, deep inside. We all are, according to Maslow and Skinner who founded the humanistic approach to psychology. I believe in that theory because if I couldn’t see my own redeeming silver linings I’d get even less sleep than the 45 minutes I usually do. If I wasn’t basically good, I wouldn’t be stricken by flashbacks of all the lies I’ve told. Maybe it was the fresh air that hit my senses at the right time. Maybe it was the image of her face burned into my retinas: the way she met my gaze and smiled. Soft. “We’re looking for sober drivers with valid licenses,” she had said. I hadn’t been smiled at in too many moons to remember. Human. Good. I stopped precisely three minutes before Lillooet town limits. I grabbed my molle style military backpack and ran like a madman for the nearest cliff, hurling it over the edge, overhand. It dropped like a rock into the waters below. The duct tape and assorted hunting knives plunging along with the first aid and survival gear, which I forgot to take out in my haste. Sudden lucidity after hours of wakefulness: this is the time when plans are abandoned. In the crisp air of the mountains, this is the place my where my clarity comes through. For the first time since owning my burner phone, I took a picture of something besides my latest prey. I took a simple picture of the sign at the Lillooet town limits: “Guaranteed Rugged,” it reads. I took a picture for my own records to say “I was here, just passing through.” And for tonight - just for tonight - it was true.