The Passenger

I live in rural Maine, where the nearest commuter rail is three hundred miles away. And since my pharmaceutical employer declared that remote work is “no longer an option” (and I have bills to pay), I climb into my car each morning and drive an hour to work.

Admittedly, it’s not a stressful drive. It’s mostly fields, a stretch of wood, a Circle K, the local Tractor Supply, more fields, another wood. Bang a right at the stop light, go twenty more miles, then turn left into the parking lot. If I’m being honest, I mostly zone out during the drive, but there is one stretch of road along Route 220 that always scratches my brain.

According to local lore, the road was once a hunting trail used by the Abenakis, long before European settlers booted them off the land. Deer and wild turkey are still plentiful -- I even saw a bear, once -- so that part of the story rings true. But there are some who talk about a particularly traumatic encounter between the natives and colonists, centuries ago, that left the place “energetically imprinted.” Having now had some experience with it, I would say that’s far too light a term.

My first strange encounter happened a few months into my commute. I was zooming down Route 220, listening to the radio and thinking about a concerning weather report, when the broadcast became static. Irritated, I punched a few buttons, but the static buzz dissolved into pure silence.

It was then that I saw a shimmer in the passenger seat. In my peripheral vision, I could see the form of a man taking shape and I nearly drove off the road.

“Hey!” I shouted.

Startled, the man also shouted.

Thinking I was having some kind of seizure, I quickly pulled to the side of the road and flipped on the hazards. I threw the car in Park, closed my eyes and took some deep breaths, wondering if I should call 911.

With a death-grip on the steering wheel, I opened my eyes and turned to the passenger seat. He was still there, my not-quite-solid visitor, looking at me wide-eyed. He said something in another language, but in my mind, I understood him perfectly.

“Who in God’s name are you?”

“Back atcha, pal!” I retorted. “This is my car you’re in!”

The man looked around, taking in me and my car. He gestured up the hill.

“I was just running down that hill, hunting a deer … and now I am sitting here … in a what? With a what?”

“With a person,” I said, offended.

He stared at my face. “Are you dead?”

“I think you’re the dead one,” I said, nodding to his opaque form. “You’re not solid.”

The man frowned. “To my eyes, you are the one who is not solid. Your car is also not solid. Are you a spirit?”

It occurred to me that I could have wrapped my car around a pine tree and could indeed now be in spirit form.  

“I’m pretty sure one of us is dead. I’m just not sure which one.” I squinted at my face in the rearview mirror; it looked normal enough. “Do you know what year it is?”

“Year?” The man looked blank for a moment. “Ah, yes. The year is sixteen hundred and seventeen.’” His face clouded. “A time of pestilence and death.”

“Pestilence,” I echoed, recalling my New England history. During the early seventeenth century, European diseases swept through Abenaki villages, wiping out almost all the inhabitants.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Many are dying. What year is it for you?”

“Two thousand and twenty-five,” I answered. “Over four hundred years in your future.”

“Is everyone like you in this time?” asked the man.

I pointed at my face, understanding his question, and nodded solemnly. We were quiet for a few moments, absorbing the exchange of information.

Finally, my passenger said, “I would like to travel in your car.”

“I guess you would.” I switched off the hazards and started the engine, once again heading for work. I was sure my passenger (aka hallucination) was going to dissipate at any moment, so I figured I might as well humor him.  

But he stayed with me, right up to the moment we pulled into the employee parking lot, adjacent to the large main building.

“What is done here?” asked the man.

“Oh, we make medicine to cure disease,” I replied.

We locked eyes at this casual proclamation. Hope flared in my passenger’s face.

“You must give me medicine for my people,” declared the man.

Before I could say anything, his body melted away.

After confirming that I was indeed alive and well in 2025, I launched myself into a research frenzy. I learned everything I could about the measles and smallpox that nearly wiped out the Abenaki, who, I learned, never recovered from all the disease, conflict and displacement brought by European settlers. Even in modern times, their remaining numbers are disproportionally affected by poor healthcare, substance abuse and suicide.

I was far enough up the food chain at work that I was able to acquire a decent amount of the appropriate vaccines. The only difficulty was figuring out how to get them from the fancy, space-age cooler in the trunk of my car into the hands of the endangered.

My commute to work was now anything but mindless. Every day, I drove slowly along Route 220, scanning the area. My dedication paid off when I finally noticed a shimmer in the corner of my eye. I slowed the car in anticipation and turned off the road.

Sure enough, the Abenaki man I had previously encountered materialized once again in my passenger seat. He looked much more solid than before.

“You again,” he breathed. “I thought I’d ingested the wrong kind of mushrooms.”

“Me again,” I confirmed. “I have twenty-first century medicine for you to take back to your people. Philosophical time-travel orthodoxy be damned.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Will it cure the sick?”

“No. But it will prevent those who aren’t sick from getting sick.”

I had preloaded hundreds of syringes with vaccine. Taking an orange and a practice syringe from the center console, I showed him how to administer an injection.

“I will give myself the first stick,” the Abenaki man said.

“Good idea,” I replied. “Let others see you do it. You’ll reassure them by staying healthy. Inject as many of your people as you can.”

“Will this change their future?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “From what I’ve read, the past can’t be changed, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Even if things don’t change in my timeline, maybe they’ll change in yours!”

We exited the car. I lifted the rear hatch and handed the Abenaki a cooler full of vaccines, which he deftly hoisted onto his still-solid shoulder. I got back into my car and watched through the window as he carried five hundred new, individually wrapped possibilities into the woods. My view of him dimmed as he got further up the hill, and then he passed through an invisible gateway and vanished.