Buck Dyson had been a long-haul trucker for over 30 years, a seasoned road warrior with countless miles etched into his rugged appearance. Now in his mid-50s, Buck's appearance was a testament to the grueling life he led on the open road. Standing at a solid six feet tall, his frame was broad-shouldered and sturdy, a physique maintained by years of manual labor. His face, weathered and tanned from the sun's relentless glare, was adorned with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard that reached down to his chest. The beard, meticulously groomed, gave him an air of rugged wisdom and authority. His hair, matching the beard’s color, was often tucked under a well-worn baseball cap, but when revealed, it showed signs of thinning, the inevitable passage of time. The hitchhiker was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a backpack flapping on his shoulder, as he ran and a look of relief crossing his features as he approached the truck. Buck observed him carefully, noting the way the young man's eyes scanned the rig and its unusual load, a mix of curiosity and caution in his gaze. As the hitchhiker reached the passenger side, Buck rolled down the window, the morning air carrying the scent of pine and asphalt. "Headed to Pearson's Point?" he asked rhetorically, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. The young man nodded, a grateful smile breaking through his cautious exterior. "Yes, sir. If you're going that far, I'd really appreciate a ride." Buck considered him for a moment longer, then nodded toward the passenger door. "Climb on in. It's a long ride to Pearson's Point." As the hitchhiker hoisted himself into the cab, Buck felt the familiar stir of curiosity and anticipation that accompanied new acquaintances on the road. This young man, with his sign for Pearson's Point knew where he was going. Buck liked that. He hated those travelers only going a few miles up the road, wasting his time. He was looking for someone to keep him company, talk and break up the monotony.