Imagine it's a hot July night in 1924.

You're a World War I veteran,

traveling with a crew of itinerant workers heading north from California toward Oregon.

You've heard there might be jobs at the lumber mills there. You and your fellow travelers,

who proudly call themselves hobos, have made camp for the night near a rail yard north of San Francisco.

You're sipping bootleg whiskey and swapping stories with the other men, and among them is a young

college student who says he's

dropped out of school to travel and work. He's been scribbling in a notebook as you and the others tell

tales of life on the road. Hey, what are you writing in that notebook, kid? Oh, just some notes for a novel

I'm working on? A novel? Yeah, haven't you ever wanted to write a novel? No, read a few, but write one, no, I don't think so. Well, I don't blame you, really. It's the hardest damn thing in the world. Doesn't seem so hard to me. You just tell folks a story, don't you? Well, that's the thing. I don't have enough stories, and guess what the notebooks for, to collect tales from people I meet. So far, though, I'm mostly hearing dirty jokes and

obvious lies. You like this kid. He seems shy, but also sure of himself. You hand him your flask.

Well, what kind of stories are you looking for? The young man takes a sip and then grimaces,

handing the flask back.

I guess, um, I want a real personal story, a human story.

I'd be willing to pay two dollars for a really believable humanistic story.

Humanistic, huh?

Well, I got one.

Back when I was 14, my father died, and I hit the road searching.

Searching? Searching for what? My mother. She'd gotten a job as a housekeeper somewhere on the Oregon coast, but the problem was I didn't know where.

I got lost in the farms and fields for four days, wandering around with no food, hardly any water, didn't see a soul.

That sounds awful.

What happened?

...