He had a voice, and I listened to him, though I wouldn't shake his hand on that road in rural New Mexico

I first saw this guy riding his bike in the middle of nowhere, outside of Santa Rosa, New Mexico. It was nearly 100 degrees out and he was peddling hard uphill, beard blowing in the wind. I drove another 25 miles to my hotel. In the morning, I ran into him as I left the parking lot. He was a recovering addict. His physician father had experimented on his body. He was headed to Albuquerque. I gave him 20 bucks, unasked, and he went down the road and bought a frozen Big Gulp and some snacks. I drove on into northern New Mexico. I thought about him every day for weeks. I even imagined seeing him a month later when I walked through a homeless encampment in Echo Lake park, in Los Angeles.