The highway has changed quite a bit since last I travelled it; it cuts through a greener, shaggier land than I remembered. But you, friend, haven’t changed at all. You picked me up, thumbing, off the exhaust-choked asphalt edge in the same old car you had let me out of two years ago at my home (you thought), the house I had left wordlessly. You came to quite a sudden halt; you stared, rather aghast, as I slid into the low seat; you asked where I was heading; I answered “yes.” You moved the stick shift with a startled hand and we sailed down the highway. And no one seeing us together would have known if you were drifting with me or I was coming home with you. But, you see, we are both drifters; today we just thought to drift together once more for a change, for a while.