The hitchhiker swung his pack into the bed of the Ford and introduced himself as Alex. Gallien steered his truck onto the shoulder and told the kid to climb in. A rifle protruded from the young man's backpack, but he looked friendly enough a hitchhiker with a Remington semiautomatic isn't the sort of thing that gives motorists pause in the forty-ninth state. He didn't appear to be very old: eighteen, maybe nineteen at most. Jim Gallien had driven four miles out of Fairbanks when he spotted the hitchhiker standing in the snow beside the road, thumb raised high, shivering in the gray Alaska dawn. (Postcard received by Wayne Westerberg in Carthage, South Dakota.) If this adventure proves fatal and you don't ever hear from me again I want you to know you're a great man. It might be a very long time before I return South. Please return all mail I receive to the sender. It was very difficult to catch rides in the Yukon Territory. Greetings from Fairbanks! This is the last you shall hear from me, Wayne.
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