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Chrissie Bentley has been interviewed! Click here to read interview.

"Excuse me?'

"Intercourse." And then a laugh. "Intercourse, PA. Pennsylvania Dutch Country."

He smiled, not because the place-name itself is funny (although, to a certain kind of person, it probably is), but because, if you were hitchhiking home for the holidays and that was the first thing you heard from the first driver that stopped, you'd probably look askance as well.

I did some quick calculations. Philly's about another hour from there, but it's almost six hours from where I'm standing right now. "Great!" I hauled my bags into the back of the Impala, then jumped into the passenger seat. I wanted to say more... but "you don't look Amish" probably wasn't the place to start, so I busied myself looking for my cigarettes - the overflowing ashtray and the open pack of Marlboros made it clear that they'd not be unwelcome - and offered him one.

"Thanks." One hand on the wheel, he rummaged for a lighter, then accepted a flame from me. And then we chatted about the kind of things that two strangers always talk about as the great outdoors flashes by the car window; laughed some more about that initial misunderstanding; stopped for burgers somewhere outside Cleveland; and then he made that fatal mistake that every driver makes. "If the traffic stays like this, we should be there before dark. I might even have time to get you closer to Philly."

A fatal mistake because that's when the snow started. The line of cars ahead of us slowed. The first accident crackled across his CB. And even the fast lane had slowed to a 20mph crawl. By the time we hit I-80, thirty miles and two hours out from the burgers, it felt like we'd be lucky to see Dutch Country by sun-up. Especially when another pile-up left us sitting so long that both of us were casting nervous glances at the gas gauge, and wondering what was more important - keeping the heat on for as long as we could, or conserving fuel enough to get us to the next service station.

I'll let you know.

His name was Brett, but he called himself BB. I only found the Brett bit out because I pestered him till he cracked, and suggested a few names that he evidently felt were even worse. It was when I announced I was going to refer to him as "Beckett" that he gave in, and there was a vague smile when I told him I rather liked "Brett."

He teased back a little, but there's only so much you can do with "Chrissie," so we swapped life stories instead. Him - nearly thirty, separated, no kids, works at a car plant in Detroit, heading east to spend the holidays with his folks. And no, they're not Amish either. Me - nearly twenty, single, no kids, studying library science in Washington State, heading east to spend the holidays with my folks. And hitch-hiking because my ride got taken sick halfway across the country, seriously sick (appendicitis), and I've not yet passed my test. So she's in hospital, her car's in long-term, and I'm... I'm sitting in a parking lot that used to be an interstate, while the snow piles up around us, and Brett is getting seriously worried about the fuel situation.

A state trooper appeared. The highway's going to be closed for the foreseeable... they're opening up one of the opposing lanes, and suggesting we all turn around and head back to the last exit. Fuel, food, coffee... and a motel. More calculations; my credit card should still be okay, or maybe they'll take an out-of-state check. Need to call my parents as well. They're still expecting me in this evening.

He was looking... whats the word? Thoughtful. Yes, thoughtful, as I walked back across the lobby after reassuring my mom that everything was fine, we'd just hit traffic and a storm, and if she watched the news tonight, she might even see it for herself.

"Okay, I figured if you don't have the money for a Greyhound, you probably don't have it for a motel room either," Brett began. "So I told them you were my sister, and we wanted one room, twin beds."

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