The Blues & Billie Armstrong 25
POPPIES ON THE HILLSIDE
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
“You could be an artist here,” I said. “The parents said you’re free to leave when you turn eighteen, but you don’t have to, you could change your mind.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
Seven cars and a big diesel truck whooshed by, the drivers showing no interest in picking up two scraggly, sweating teenagers.
Tired, hot, silent. I was trying to calculate in my head how long it might take to walk the twenty-some miles to Lupoyoma when we spotted another potential ride approaching in the distance. We both resumed the thumbs-out position. Then I had the sensation I recognized this indistinct hump of white speeding toward us. As it got closer, I heard the unmistakable click and rattle of a Volkswagen engine, and I said “Oh no!” and reached for Billie’s arm but too late.