I skidded past the shelves filled with New York mugs, ugly sweatshirts with the logo Flaya on it, and candy cane shot glasses even though Christmas was over 300 days away. My eyes darted about when I met my target- Burger King. I clutched my stomach with one hand, my other holding onto a couple quarters and dimes I managed to salvage from Tabitha's piggy bank.

Meeting eye contact was more difficult than speaking. Anybody could run their mouth, but looking at the face, they'd freeze like a deer.

"Can I help you?" A caramel-haired woman asked, flicking her stuck on lashes.

"Y-yeah a veggie burger thank you," I stuttered, feeling red crawl to my cheeks. What an odd thing, to buy food. Isn't the point of survival learning to hunt for your own food instead of laying around indulging on money bait?

My stomach manifested its true form when it met eyes with its prey- the vegetable burger. Habits of the manifested stomach include: low-pitched whale whistle, unbearable pain, an enormous blow to the self-esteem.
The clerk flipped her fake lashes and wrapped the prey in a shiny foil, then placed it in a paper bag. I cringed a little when I saw the grease soaking the bottom as if the burger peed in there.

"Here you go, your total comes to..." she punched in the register's buttons. "$2.95."

I pulled my makeshift rag purse out of my pocket and splayed it over the counter to reach a handful of the coins. When I handed it over to her, my peripheral vision caught her little hand rubbing on her apron after placing the coins into a separate bed. I was too used to it to care. At least she didn't yell for me to get out.

Smoked sardines were better than the eye candy burger I was having. The tomatoes leaked clear juice as though they'd been crying (which I understood of course) and the rest of the vegetables tasted like it was grown on a truck bed where they had no sunlight and the only water they had was kerosene. Like I was saying before, corporate scam.
After successfully conquering my greatest obstacle, I didn't even bother looking around for a trash can. When the woman wasn't looking, I shoved the aluminum foil down my coat pocket and speed walked through the gift shop. Foil could be useful for storing my fish bait.

As I walked down the snow-flecked road for the sleeping trucks, I dusted off my good thumb, the only finger I've washed daily and chopped the nail till it reached the nail bed. The foil crinkled in my pocket.

When I first started hitchhiking, I had Simon by my side. There's nothing more comforting than hearing his cheery voice and raspy laughter. He was the one that taught me how to hitch and ride. He was the one that taught me how to fish. He was the one to teach me how to take down an adult moose using only a bow-and-arrow.
Then destiny called, and I knew it was time to branch away from him.
I shoved my thumb in the air, the sunlight covering up the flesh-colored cuts from splitting open a log a week ago. Every time a car or truck or motorcycle whooshed by, I always felt a force pulling me towards them. As my heart raced, I imagined Simon's gentle grip against my chest, and calming words telling me everything will be alright.

A guy spitting image of Mr. Clean stopped on the shoulder, inches away from my boot heel. "Where ya headin'? He asked in a strong southern accent.

"White Mountains National Park," I answered, my hands clamming up.

"Me too, gettin." He jerked his head invitingly.

Trust, the deadly five letter word. It's like a gift, you give it to someone, you don't know if they'll give you something good back. Or return the deed at all.

Trust, something that must be handled gently.

Plants slinked up the crimson brick walls and stopped wrapping around like a snake on the chimney spewing gray smoke. Nenana Lodge, the once bright sign read, bleached out from the harsh Alaskan winter. The clock that smacked in middle had its hour hand stuck at 12:00.

Inside, an uncomfortable amount of warmth hit me over mixed in with the bitter scent of coffee beans. With coins jingling in my pocket with the crinkling of aluminum foil, I walked up to the large check in desk.

"Can I help you?" A middle-aged man greeted in the typical midlife crisis tone. His salt and pepper hair had been bent out of shape from countless nervous ruffles.

"Room for one," I muttered. Ugh, I haven't gotten used to this whole talking thing.

"Aren't you a little young to be traveling alone?" He asked, his gaze fixated on his computer screen.

"I'm 24," I admitted.

"Oh. You a backpacker like the others?"

"Y-yeah. Stampede Trail and Crow Pass."

His eyebrows shot up as if he'd never heard the words before. "Bring a bear bell if you're going in alone." Be shot his arm out and held a plastic card with Denali slapped across it. "Here's your swipe. Room 204."

I've stayed in a hotel only once before in my life. Most hikers would appreciate a nice hot meal and shower once in while, but not me. Walking on this foreign land made my knees quake.
On the path, the scent of hot bread and bacon made my mouth salivate. I never had much of an interest towards eating out for fun, but it was getting hard just not to go in.