Two hours and five rides later, Jesse plopped down to play harmonica outside the Rocket, a truck stop west of Hannibal, Missouri. The notes were flowing freely and bending just right. He had just crossed the mighty Mississippi River and passed through Mark Twain’s hometown. He was feeling pretty Tom Sawyer, full of mischief and ready for adventure.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young woman shuffling out of the restaurant. She looked like a cross between a hippie chick and a skid row Raggedy Ann doll. She had no shoes, just oversized socks. Her only piece of luggage was a lunchbox. Jesse called out to her, “You must be rich to afford restaurant food.”
She came over and sat down next to him. She hung her head so low her dirty blonde hair touched the gravel driveway. “I’ve only
