I look around and see stories.

Everyone has a story. Every place has a story.

Some never get told.

Some never happen.

Like now. I imagine the possibilities.

We were driving south again, on Highway 5 again, going over a bridge.

We saw flashing lights ahead. A cop car pulled over on the shoulder, two policemen in uniform standing side by side, blocking the edge of the road.

A woman backpacker was hiking toward them. She wore a sleeveless top and was sunburned dark red as if she had been walking forever.

Her pack looked heavy.

The two Highway Patrolmen were waiting for her.

That’s all I saw in a quick flash. We were driving the speed limit, which is pretty fast in these parts.

I imagined the rest of the story.

It could have gone several ways.

“Ma’am, where you heading?”
“You know you’re not supposed to walk on the freeway.”

“We can give you a ride to the end of our jurisdiction, and call ahead so someone can take you from there.”

Or,

“Get in the car. You’re breaking the law. Don’t try to resist. It could go bad for you.”

Or,

“It’s awfully hot, you look like you could use a drink, we have an extra bottle of water. If you need a place to stay overnight, we can offer you a bed, it’s in a jail but there’s a toilet and even a shower down the hall under supervision, our policewomen are friendly when they can.”

And maybe later,

“Don’t try to get out the window. That’ll just make us take you to court and then you wouldn’t have any chance.”

And then maybe even later, facing two cops on the freeway,

“I just escaped from jail. Don’t try to stop me.”