*He* saved my life in Montreal.

Before *him*, I'd been through a string of bad relationships with men who didn't care a thing for me. Not one little bit.

Oh, I admit, they cared about where I could *take * them, but about me, the soul inside this body…well, they probably never even stopped to consider that it existed.

Now that I have any right to complain; when you're in my line of work, you come to expect the curses, the kicks and hits, the neglect…they never, not once, not one of them, even bothered to tell me their name.

The man before him, he got me in a bet, I think. Sometimes I could hear him muttering in his sleep about fights, money lost and won, women left behind and women looked forward to. Most nights, after the fights, he would bring women back with him—and most of the time I don't even think that they were willing.

Or maybe they just liked screaming and getting beat up. You'd be surprised.

Anyway, they'd be going at it in the front seat, him grunting like some pig, the woman screaming and screeching, trying to kick out at him but missing and hitting me instead. Then later, when he was done, he'd just push her out the passenger-side door and we'd drive away.

He just didn't care about treating others right—even if it would have been to his benefit in the end. You know the saying about catching more flies with honey?

Well, he didn't.

Once, he drove me through an entire state on a flat tire—a whole entire state! He couldn't be bothered to change it--even though I complained, and loudly--despite the fact that he would've been much more comfortable if he'd stopped to take the time to get out the spare.

No, he preferred venting his anger by hitting me on the dashboard or on the steering wheel; or if he was outside, kicking me on my left front tire. Yeah, that was his favorite. He must've been pretty good at whatever it was he did to support himself, because he managed to hold onto me all the way from Southern Tennessee up to, like I said, Eastern Toronto. When we got up to the border, snow was falling on the ground, and he must've been pretty cold, `cause after hitting at the heater for a couple hundred miles, he actually stopped at a service station to have them fixed.

I cannot tell you how marvelous it felt to have those gentle hands working on me, connecting torn wires, mending shredding casing, tightening loose plugs, after being treated so roughly by so many cruel and selfish idiots. Well, to shorten an already too-long story, we arrived at a bar in Eastern Toronto. It looked like just about all the other places we'd stopped at—-there were other beat-up campers and trucks parked up alongside of the shack the housed whatever was attracting all these men.

Much later, the jerk who'd been driving me came out into the parking lot. But instead of dragging some woman along with him, he was being dragged along behind another man. It was late, so late that it was about to become early; and since this had never happened before, I paid attention to what was going on around me.

"This your car?" the new guy asked.

"Please, please don't take it! You've already got all my money, mister, don't take my car! It's all I've got left!" The little nimrod begged.

He snorted, "Should've thought about that before you made the bet, bub."

Oh, so *that* was his name. The new guy picked Bub up and threw him into the wall of the bar in front of me. I turned on my lights so that I could better see him as he lay slumped down on the ground against the bar. Heh, take *that*, you asshole!

The new guy got into the cab and sat for a while, just staring out the windshield and rubbing his knuckles. I wondered what he was thinking about. No one had ever just *sat* in me before—-they'd always just gotten right on in, turned the key, and headed out. This, this was kinda nice.

He seemed to collect himself suddenly, and focused on the twin beams of light shining against the bar in front of me, clearly revealing Bub's still slumped-over form.

"Damn fool asshole left the lights on," he muttered, "Well, come on Baby, we've got places to go, and money to win." As he turned the key in the ignition, I am sure that I felt my engine turn over an extra time, before settling into a new rhythm. So this was love.

---

It's amazing what you can learn about a person after traveling with them for months on end. I know how people drive, and how a person drives is a reflection of who they are. My guy, for example.

It's like he's two different people.

One of them is focused. Everything about him--the way that he sits in the seat, the way that he grips the steering wheel, the way that he switches gears and presses the pedals—-everything is swift, quick, smooth, with no wasted movement, yet possessing an inherent, unconscious grace that simply defies expression. It's almost like his hands have been deeply trained in these balletic movements and the memory has been absorbed into the muscle—-always there at the most elemental level, yet never directly acknowledged by the brain.

He is centered, aware, tense, intense.

The other one—isn't.

He is the one who drives slower. Less like he's chasing after something, more like he's looking for something. This side of him looks through the windows from time to time to see the scenery, instead of constantly checking in the mirrors to see if there's someone behind us. This is the one who lingers when he's straightening out of a turn, instead of simply moving his hands hand-over-hand as I right myself, he loosens them slightly and lets the wheel slide against his palms, appreciating the difference in textures. This is the one who relaxes enough to drive with only one hand, keeping the other on the stick after shifting gears, or maybe resting an elbow on the window frame.

Two very different men, but I love them both.

Well, we've been together for about a year and a half now—-not very long, when you consider that most cars are with the same person for years on end—-but for me, it's a record. The longest time I was ever with someone before him was, oh goodness, it would have been nearly twelve years ago. We were together about nine months before that relationship ended. I was a spiffy young thing then--in my teens, with a shiny paint job. But now--

By the end of the third month, we'd settled into a rhythm.

He'd get up every morning at dawn, ready to get going. I'd complain a bit, and we'd start driving. I confess, I was not a happy camper in the mornings. I've always preferred sleeping late, especially now, as I'm getting on in years--this old engine gets kinda cranky when it gets cold outside, and I can always tell when a storm's coming up `cause the pistons get creaky.

As far as meals went, we'd stop when we needed to. I must confess, we'd stop for me more often than for him-—but that's just how he was; a gentleman, and someone who always took care of what was his. And I was his.

So, he'd get gas for me, and jerky, pretzels, and water for him, and we'd be off. Every night, we'd stop at the same kind of places—-all bars, like where he picked me up-—then, much later, he'd come out, and we'd either go to a roadside hotel, which were few and far between; or what was more often, to my delight, we'd just sleep together, on the side of the road.

I may be flattering myself, but I think that he preferred being with me. Something about not liking to stay in a place where he didn't feel safe. He felt safe with me, and I cherished it.

---

Today started like any other—day broke, he woke up, I tried desperately to ignore him as he got up, pulled on a shirt and jeans—-well, maybe I did pay attention to that part—-climbed into the cab, and turned the key.

No. No, it is not time to get up yet.

"Come on, come on, turn over,"

No. It's too early, I'm not getting up.

"Come on, please, come on, Baby."

Oh dang it, he was using his pleading voice—-I really couldn't resist the sound of his voice, especially when it's all husky and throbby because he's not wide-awake yet.

"*Please* Baby,"

Oh, Ok then, fine. You know I just had to make a token protest, though—-just for the sake of form.

"All right"

And we got into gear.

---

A motorcycle.

A *motorcycle*.

The man brought back a *motorcycle*.

Well, great.

That's just *peachy*.

And what exactly are we going to be doing with a motorcycle, I would like to know?

Um-hum. That's what I thought.

I'll just be stuck hauling it around all day long while you sit up here in the driver's seat alternating between resting your elbow on the windowsill and yodeling the lyrics to horrible musicals at the top of your lungs, or being Mr. Broody all day long, hardly speaking to me at all.

"I won me a bike!"

Don't you dare chuckle to yourself like that!

I don't care if you won it, bought it, or picked the thing up off of the side of the road—-it's trouble, let me tell you. You should've just left it where you found it.

And in case you hadn't noticed, that is a motorcycle—-not a bike. I like bikes. Bikes don't have engines, they can't haul diddly-squat, and they can't go faster than 5mph on a good day. This, my love, is a motorcycle.

And it is T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

And what do you need a motorcycle for anyway? We're in *Northern* *Canada*, in case you hadn't noticed, and weather conditions are not favorable for off-roads (and are there any really other kind of roads in Northern Canada? I thought not.) motorcycling.

The man you won it off of clearly knew that there was no way you'd ever lose, and so probably just put up the thing he didn't want.

If he'd won, he'd probably have *begged* you to take it off of his hands for him. I mean, look at the thing—-its all full of dents, it's rusty, all of its finish has been worn off. At least I still have some paint on me.

And don't you dare start talking about fixing it up sometime. You will do nothing of the sort. You're following the fight circuit, remember? You don't have time to take care of fussy old motorcycles who don't know when it's time to retire gracefully to the nearest junkyard.

It's me, or her.

---

Well, it's been two weeks, and that little slut of a motorcycle is still here.

Not for long though, if I have anything to do with it. She's got two wheels of her own—-why should I have to carry her all the way?

There's a definite carrying capacity on this camper, and let me tell you, it does not allow for obnoxious little scooters that try to butt in on other vehicles' relationships.

This morning, he didn't rope down little miss oh-please-carry-me-I'm-so-weak-and-helpless when we got all ready to leave, so I figure that the next pothole we come to (and believe me, Northern Canada has more potholes than it does roads), if I just jiggle a little bit, that interfering motorcycle should slide right on out into the snow.

He won't even notice that she's gone.

---

Damn it.

Where's a pothole when you need one?

You'd think that after thirteen hours we'd have come across at least one pothole. But no, after days of running over so many potholes that my shocks were just about ready to give up on me, suddenly, as soon as I need one, the road's as smooth as newly poured asphalt.

I guess folks in Laughlin are just more considerate towards their transportation than everyone else since we left the U.S. Couldn't have come at a less welcome time.

Well, I doubt that we're going to be staying overnight at this place—-for all that they have good roads, this is the kind of place that makes you wonder how so many rednecks managed to find themselves so far up north. I bet I can ditch the motorcycle after we leave here, before we settle down for the night.

---

Whoa!

What's that?

There's—-there's someone fooling around in the back!

What?

Take the scooter! Please! Please, take the scooter! Quick, you see...right there, it's all yours, the keys are right here on the dashboard…

Oh, dammit.

Come on, I'm already carrying one lazy good-for-nothing of a motorcycle—-you've got two good feet. Use them!

Oh, lord, a stowaway.

Nothing good will come from this.

---

Logan! Logan, there's someone in the back. I don't know who they are—-they just jumped on. Get rid of them! I'm not some free shuttle service. You and me—-that's how this is supposed to work.

No!

No! We can't go yet! There's still someone in the back! They might be one of those maniacs I've heard about-—they hide in the backseat, and then just when you've gotten to a dark secluded road — bam! — you wake up to discover they've stolen your engine and sold it on the blackmarket for $1,000.

That's it, I'm stopping—-I'm sorry, I am not going any farther. You're just going to have to get out and figure it out for yourself, Mister-I'm-two-timing-my-camper-with-a- motorcycle.

"What the…"

Like I said, there's someone back there!!!

Ok, he's going to get rid of the stowaway. Good.

Awwww, it's just a skinny little kid. Poor dear, she must be in some sort of trouble.

Don't you worry, it'll all work out—-there's a phone back at the bar, I'm sure. Call someone, and they'll pick you up.

Ho hum, we're getting back on the road now--I'm not going to wonder what's going to happen to her. The world is full of hitchhikers, and I'm sure she's got someone she can call. I'm not going to look in the rearview mirror.

Nope, not gonna do it.

Aw, look at her—-she's just standing there. She must really be desperate—-it's cold out there. What if she really doesn't have anyone who cares about her? What if she's really in trouble? She's just a baby—-she doesn't deserve to be left all alone on a deserted road in the snow.

Well, at least she'll take his mind off of the damn motorcycle.

---

"You don't have anything to eat do you?"

Hmmmmm. Food. I could sure use a pit stop myself, honey; of course, I'm not quite as easy to cater to as you seem to be. The extent of my menu-choice runs between Regular, Unleaded, and Plus.

I prefer Plus; but then, I've always been a picky eater.

"I'm Rogue"

Well Rogue, it's nice to meet you. I'm Baby, and Mr. Talkative over here is Logan.

He's mine.

"Were you in the army? Doesn't…doesn't that mean you were in the army?"

Hush, child. It's none of your business.

And you don't need to be getting too cozy here, either; this is just a lift to the nearest town, and then, you're gone.

"Wow."

"What?"

What is it?

"Suddenly my life doesn't look that bad."

…well of all the ungrateful…

"Hey. If you'd prefer the road…"

That's right Honey, you tell `er!

"No, no. It looks great…looks cozy"

Damn right it's cozy here—-it was even cozier before you came along, little girl--don't you ever forget that! And you'd better watch your manners, Missy, because the hotshot in the driver's seat only *thinks* that he's in control-—but I'm the motor behind this little caravan, and if you don't watch it…

"Put your hands on the heater."

Wait just one second—-what do you think you're doing? So far all this girl's done is stowed away in our trailer, eaten all the food, and insulted me. If you want my opinion, she hasn't done a whole heck of a lot to earn any special treatment; she's not the one who's been carrying you across the continent and who's put up with you singin' those show-tunes.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, kid"

No, but I just might.

"It's nothing personal. It's just that…when people touch my skin, something happens."

Well, that's weird.

"What?"

"I don't know. They just get hurt."

Oh.

Oh poor baby. That must be just awful, honey.

But you'd still better not touch him.

"Fair enough."

Poor, poor baby.

"When they come out…does it hurt?"

"Every time."

Two people shouldn't have to carry around so much pain. It's just not right. Sometimes the world can be just such a horrible place.

Stick with us, honey—-it'll be alright. We'll make it all right.

"So what kind of a name is `Rogue'?"

Ummm, hun, we really shouldn't be asking her any personal questions. I mean, she's sweet an' all, but we don't need to be getting all intimate in the front seat.

"I don't know. What kind of a name is `Wolverine'?"

You see, this is what happens when you start asking people personal questions. Now she's going to start wanting to ask you personal questions, and she's just going to be hurt when you don't ans--

"Name's Logan."

Wait a sec—-what about the not sharing intimate information with strangers? Whatever happened to that?

What do I look like? `Logan's Camper of Love'? I don't think so.

"Marie."

Wait just one minute there--you are *not* supposed to be bonding with female teenage mutant hitchikers that have deadly skin—-didn't your mamma ever tell you that?

"You know, you should wear your seat belt."

Listen, girl, it's not your place to be lecturing—

"Look, kid. I don't need advice on auto safety from—

Aaaaaaah!!!

Oh, Jesus, where did that come from? Random trees are not supposed to run into moving vehicles-—it's supposed to be the other way around! Logan, what's going on?

Logan?

LOGAN! Oh my God! Are you alright? Get up Sugar! Get up! I know you can! You have to be alright!

God! Get up!

Oh, thank God, you're alright. Thank God.

"You alright?"

Yes, Honey, I'm—

Oh, shit.

Oh God, I'm—-there's smoke. Where…what…what's going on…oh, God, the cigar.

I'm on fire!

Help! Help, honey, you've got to get over here! Quick, there's a fire—-I'm on fire! Shit!

"Kid, are you alright?"

Oh, God, and the girl's still here! Marie! Kid! Put out the fire—-you've got to stop it! You've got to smother it out!

"I'm stuck!"

Oh *God*, I'm *on fire*!!!!!!!

Whoa—-who's that?

Some dude in fur just jumped outta the sky, an' he doesn't look like he's from triple A.

Oh, shit—

Hey! Leave us alone! What'd we ever do to you? Stop!

Oh, God that fire's getting closer to the fuel.

Two more people coming out of the sky—-what is it with the weather up here?

What-—oh, no, you're not taking her away from us—-no way, buddy, she's with us. We promised.

They're gone.

That fire's getting closer, and they left me.

I'm glad. I don't think that I could take anyone else after him. Now I just have to wait a few more seconds, and it'll be over.

You know, it's really beautiful here—the snow is white and clean and the air is fresh.

This is a good place to go.