He’s never stayed at a motel before, never been in a room where everything in it looks modern, brand new. More classy than the restaurant.

“I could live in a place like this forever if I had to,” he says. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s hinting. At what, he can’t figure. Back at the restaurant, he told Rick everything about his busy day on the farm, including what happened with Stan.

“You sure I did right leaving the pickup in HoJo’s lot?” he says.

It was Rick’s idea to abandon it there and to write a postcard telling Stan where to find it.

“Quit worrying,” the trucker says. “You did yourself a big favor unloading that moving target.” He strips down to his underwear and sits on his bed. “Man, I could use a long, hot shower.”

Dale reclines on the other bed. He sinks into the quilted cover, grateful to be horizontal. Gentle arms seem to draw him into the softness. He could conk out right now, never get up again despite all the coffee he drank. He tries to remove his work boots with his feet alone.

“Would it be okay if I showered first?” he asks. “I might not stay awake through yours.” He closes his eyes, forgets the question. He hears the jangle of springs from the other bed. The lights go out.

“I can help you get started,” Rick says.

“With what?”

“Getting you undressed, so you can take that shower.”

Dale opens his eyes to near darkness. “You want to undress me?”

“The question is, do you want me to undress you?” Rick stands in the space between their beds. Light from veiled windows gives definition to his handsome face and angular body. “I won’t ask again. Like I told you at the restaurant -- gentlemen’s agreement.”

Unsure what he wants, Dale hovers between exhaustion and muted arousal. “Could use some help with my boots,” he says. “If you don’t mind starting there.”

Shoe removal doesn’t seem like much of a commitment, a thing he could stop if he gets uncomfortable. He’s certain Rick wouldn’t mind. Almost certain. He hasn’t the nerve to ask what’s going to happen when his clothes are off. What’s expected of him. He has some vague ideas he can’t -- or won’t -- picture. Fuzzy images of girls and guys pairing every which way. Doing things he thought about when he was alone in the farmhouse, lying in his bed, rubbing against an old towel hand-washed later.

Meanwhile, sure fingers unlace his boots, free his numb feet. The mattress tilts as Rick sits near him, unbuttoning his plaid shirt, freeing the crumpled tail. Soon his belt buckle is undone.

“Lift up a little,” Rick says. “Unless you want to finish on your own.” The trucker’s unshaven face appears silken in the dimness. His dark eyes never seemed more reassuring. “It’s up to you,” he says again and withdraws a little.

“I don’t know,” Dale says. “I don’t know what to do, I mean.”

“You don’t have to do a thing.” Rick slides a hand under the boy’s yellowed T-shirt.