“Washington state.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s far away.”
“I know.”
She said, “You’re headed west, but the road you’re coming up on can get a little tricky. It’s better during the day.” She glanced back over her shoulder. Don could hear music now, coming from the people around the fire. Bob Marley and the Wailers. They shot the sheriff, but they didn’t shoot no deputy. People danced, hands high above their heads. Turning back to them, the woman said, “You wouldn’t hurt anyone, would you? Rob someone. Take something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Don shook his head slowly. “I don’t think we’d know how.”
The woman chuckled. “You can stay with us for tonight, if you want. We have wine and weed and the vibes are to die for. We also have chili, if you’re hungry. One of the people in the caravan used to be a chef and had some venison.”
“Used to be?” Don asked.
The woman leaned forward, her face inches from the window. “Well, weallused to be something, didn’t we? Now, we’re something else. Room to park. We’ll see you up there?” And with that, she spun on her bare heels and walked back toward the fire, her skirt billowing around her feet.
“What do you think?” Don asked, staring after the woman.
“Hippies,” Rodney muttered. “It’s always gotta be hippies. You hear her? She said they have a commune.”
“Caravan,” Don corrected without thinking.
Rodney waved a hand. “Same difference. Caravan leads to communes which leads to Communism.”
“Rodney.”
“What?”
“I don’t think that matters anymore.”
Rodney opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. He tried again. Nothing. He sighed. “It matters tome.”
“Duly noted. I’m tired. And hungry. Let’s go hang out with the hippies and their wine and weed.”
Rodney gaped at him.
Don stared back.
Grumbling, Rodney put the RV in drive and pulled down the road.
The woman was waiting for them. She clapped when they parked and turned off the RV, hurrying to the passenger door to fling it open. In her hand, another flower crown. She curtsied neatly in front of Don as he clambered out of the RV. Then she placed the flower crown on his head before kissing the tip of his nose. “There,” she said, taking a step back. “Now you look the part.” Dropping her voice, she whispered, “I don’t think your travel companion wants one.”
“He’s my husband,” Don said. “And no, I don’t think you should try and give him one.”
Rodney rounded the RV and rolled his eyes when he saw Don’s new accessory. “I’ll leave you here,” he threatened.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Don said.
Rodney demurred, grimacing as he glared at the flower crown.
“My name is Pantomime,” the woman said. “What are yours?”
Rodney groaned. “Are you out of your—”
“I’m Don,” he said quickly. “This is Rodney. It’s a pleasure to meet you… Pantomime.”
She grinned at them. “Oh, aren’t you precious. Come on, let me introduce you to my friends.”
And she did just that. They met everyone, people with names like Corn Blue and Violetta and Aberdeen. They were all young,the oldest appearing around thirty, or thereabouts. There was food and fire smoke and weed smoke. Plastic cups filled with white wine, with red wine. Stacks of wood for the fire. Speakers set up on the back of a truck, the music blaring. The biggest bong Don had ever seen, at least five feet tall and popular, if the line was any indication.