“Look at this bloke ‘ere.” The truck driver said.

I stared out the window. As a French woman, this city was completely new to me. Even though it was only kilometers away, it felt like a whole new world.

Then, I saw what he saw. The hitchhiker wore a hoodie that shielded his face, and jeans that were darker than the night sky.

“Do you get that kind of people around here often?” I asked, my accent seeping past my sleep-deprived tongue.

“You see all types of people in Britain.” The man escorting me answered with a short exhale on the end. It wasn’t necessarily a significant one. It seemed to be like something those with an English dialect did often.

It was strange to me because it wasn’t like he was hailing a taxi on the London streets. We were traveling an unbeaten path, a rocky trail of mysteries.

“Should we pick him up?” I inquired, though I was uncertain and anxious.

The truck driver shrugged and said. “Sure. Let’s help a mate out.”

The truck screeched to a halt. The hitchhiking man stepped in.

“Where to?” The truck driver asked.

The man looked at me; or at least, I thought he did. His eyes were still shrouded by his jacket.

He stared for a while, and then he said, “Strawberry Fields.”

That sent chills up my spine, even though I wore an authentic mink coat.

That was the hotel I was heading for.

It was possible that he was just headed the same place as me, but I severely doubted it. It was practically off the map, and you need to make a reservation seven months in advance just to get a room.

And this man, not to judge, didn’t look like he had a reservation.

But the truck driver didn’t notice this.

“Aces! This young lady’s going the same place as you!” He said, for maybe the first time in his life, cheerfully.

I didn’t say anything, because this driver was so kind to take me, a foreigner, to my destination. But something was off about the jacketed man next to me.