Misty sat on the curb near dusk on a clear warm night at a truckstop near I-80 North of Girard with her thumb out. Her friends'd simply called her Hop, for her devotion to Zeppelin, but she didn't have her I-Pod with her any more.
Her little brother'd called her Missy, no matter how many times she'd tried to correct him. She'd tear up every time she thought about him.
400 miles from New Jersey, that was the easy part. Many days from the West Coast. She would know what she was looking for when she found it.