The hitcher thanks us and gets out. He grounds his bulging rucksack and produces a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Mandy looks over at me, her chipped cherry nails splayed-out across her bulge as if she’s trying to stop the kid from floating off, “you know you just put our baby at risk”, she said. I push down the indicator and check the mirror; Mandy blows back her fringe, “you ever do that again!”. I give the rear-view a twist and see my dad staring back. “Our kid might need a ride someday”, and right then, I sound like him too. Mandy looks out of the window, at the awkward youth in faded denim, his hand raised in a grateful farewell. When she looks back at me, the fire’s been extinguished from her eyes, and I sense that maybe, she just waved at a mother’s son.