Leo Mercer was crossing Alabama heading west, with one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the window, and his hair tied loosely behind him with a stretched leather string. His car, a faded blue 1971 Plymouth Duster, shuddered over the asphalt as if it were carrying a secret that wanted out. On the back windshield it had a frayed sticker that said MAKE MUSIC NOT WAR, another that had once been a flower and now looked more like a stain, and on the dashboard three packs of Camels, an Allman Brothers cassette that the deck kept chewing, and a bag of weed so small it barely deserved to be called a bag.

Leo was headed for San Diego. At least that was what he told anyone who asked. The truth was that he was headed far away. San Diego was just a word with sunlight on it.