One day in Nebraska a car pulled to the road shoulder. When I reached the window, I saw two little old ladies dressed in their Sunday finest." I know you're not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but it's so far between towns out here, you feel bad passing a person," said the driver, who introduced herself as Vi. I didn't know whether to kiss them or scold them for stopping. This woman was telling me she'd rather risk her life than feel bad about passing a stranger on the side of the road.

Once when I was hitchhiking unsuccessfully in the rain, a trucker pulled over, locking his brakes so hard he skidded on the grass shoulder. The driver told me he was once robbed at knifepoint by a hitchhiker. "But I hate to see a man stand out in the rain," he added. "People don't have no heart anymore."

I found, however, that people were generally compassionate. Hearing I had no money and would take none, people bought me food or shared whatever they happened to have with them. Those who had the least to give often gave the most. In Oregon a house painter named Mike noted the chilly weather and asked if I had a coat. When he learned that I had "a light one," he drove me to his house, and handed me a big green army-style jacket. A lumber-mill worker named Tim invited me to a simple dinner with his family in their shabby house. Then he offered me his tent. I refused, knowing it was probably one of the family's most valuable possessions. But Tim was determined that I have it, and finally I agreed to take it.