Dave Onofrychuk
Twenty-some years ago, late at night on a secondary highway in the prairie, on my way to lawn-mowing gig at a Scout camp two hours north of home, a man flagged me down beside his car on the shoulder. Could he get a ride? Pitch dark, no moon. His face, half shadow in the glow of my headlights. Me, nineteen years old. “Sure,” I said. I dropped him off in town, a few miles up the road. Sometimes I look back on that and wonder how much there is to be afraid of. Sometimes I shake my head at myself and shudder.
