Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 12.

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Rain,  rain and more rain.  Freedy was sick of it.  The High Desert turned into the Great Basin and looked just the same, except maybe even flatter and more boring.  A curtain of gray, clouds and sheets of rain, a muddied mixture of browns and tans and bright red rocks.

Miles and miles of it.

As last man onboard -- or maybe it was low man on the totem pole -- Freedy was stuck in back of the van nestled among the supplies.  He had a streaked occluded back window to stare out of and nothing else.  He could barely hear the conversation in front, much less join it.  Didn't sound like he was missing much -- desultory comments every few miles, a bit of grim laughter.

At least he was out of the rain, unlike poor Steve and Sam, who were riding some loud Harley's behind them.  They looked like two giant wheeled ponchos with tiny little goggled heads poking out.

IDAHO,  he saw on a sign in passing.  Not long after, NEVADA, and then UTAH and ARIZONA.

But it all looked the same.  No stopping at casinos, or resorts, or Grand Canyons -- just endless driving.  The others took turns driving or snoring.  They didn't ask Freedy and he didn't volunteer.  They stopped for gas and bathrooms and kept on driving.

Weaving in and out of the traffic, seeming to be part of the caravan sometimes and sometimes not, was a little white Miata with Garland driving.  He'd disappear for hundreds of miles and come up roaring behind the van and winking at Freedy.

Freedy, who was pretty sure he was locked into a hunchback posture for the rest of his life, eyed the empty passenger seat of the Miata with undisguised hunger.

They pulled up to another reststop.  Freedy tiredly climbed over the backseat and out the side door,  (none of the others gave him the courtesy of opening the back door).  He walked bent over the bathroom.  Pretty bad when the cold toilet seat felt luxurious, he thought.  What had he gotten himself into?  What if he just hid behind the trashcans in the back until they left? Would they even miss him?

And then what? He'd left without money, his credit cards were tapped out.  Somehow facing being broke and alone in a strange land was worse than staying with the expedition.  He was being ignored, but it was a kind of being-included taken-for-granted kind of ignoring.

He trudged out of the restroom, windmilling his arms and trying to straighten his back.

Garland's Miata came roaring up, and slammed to a stop parallel to the sidewalk.

The door popped open.  "Hop in!" the old man said.

Freedy gratefully slid into the front seat.  At the same time, he felt a trepidation.  No interaction with Garland so far had been without a steep price.

Oh, my god.  The seat was heated.  It felt as soft as his bed at home.  The music playing was some sort of ethereal new age music but it sounded heavenly.  He sighed loudly.

"Sorry about that," Garland said.  "The boys are pretty accustomed to hardship and they forget not everyone is used to it.  But they enjoy their comforts, too.  You'll see."

Freedy had nearly nodded off at the softness and the quiet and the warmth.

"Ummmm,"  Freedy said, nearly humming in comfort.  His stomach growled.  Except for his hunger, he was in paradise.  (A couple of times a day, the designated cook -- Jay?-- would hand him a cold sandwich and some lemonade.)

"How are you enjoying your adventure so far?"  Garland asked, with a straight face.

How to answer?  He hated it?  Despised it?  Loathed the whole damn experience?

"It's all right," something compelled him to mutter.  These guys wouldn't appreciate softness, he thought.  So he'd pretend to be hard.

Garland laughed.  "You aren't fooling anyone.  You hate it, don't you?  This land is beautiful at times, but it can also be pretty dreary in the fall.  And there are miles and miles of it."

The old hippie looked at Freedy as if really seeing him.  "Hang in there, Freedy.  It'll get better."

"Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?" Freedy heard himself asking.

"We'll find out, won't we?" Garland shrugged.  "I don't think so -- not if you have one tenth of Tessie's grit.  Why, you want out?"

Freedy felt a surge of hope.  Was Garland making an offer?

"Well, uh, I'm just not sure I'm cut out for the adventurous life."  Strange, as he said it, he felt like he was pulling a piece of himself out of his chest and smothering it under his fat butt.

Garland drove in silence for miles.  Then he roared past the caravan and shot down the highway.  As the horizon blurred, Freedy looked at the speedometer -- 80, 90, 95....   The car started shaking slightly at 95, and he closed his eyes and quit looking.

"I'll tell you what, Freedy Filkins.  If you want out, I'll drop you off at the nearest bus station with a ticket and enough money to buy some food.   We'll cancel the mortgage payments to your house, of course.  But good luck to you..."

Freedy's mind became a whirl of competing thoughts.  He slammed his head into the window, as if to knock all the thoughts out, and it worked, for a moment.

"No," he said clearly.  "I'm in."