As Dave hiked along the road in the hot morning sun, a car pulled up. It was Doc Taylor from the chemical plant. He was also a part time coach for Dave's football team.
"Hey, Dave, need a lift?"
"Well, I was going to hike, but man it sure got hot. I'd love a ride, thanks, coach."
"Hey, the season's over Mr. Receiver, call me Zak, okay, Dave?"
"Whatever you say, Zak. This is my cat Champ, hope you aren't allergic." Dave hopped into the front seat setting his pack on the floor between his legs. Champ looked up at Zak, something bothered him about the smiling moustachioed man. He was worried about Dave.
"Nah, but you better keep him zipped up in your bag, don't want to get my interior clawed up."
"Sure thing, co--Zak."
"Oh, there's a cold soda in the Coleman in back. Help yourself, Dave?"
"Thanks, I will." Dave reached in back and pulled a cold wet one out of the cooler, water droplets, and bits of ice clung to the aluminum. He popped the top and tipped the can back. He never noticed the syringe hole, the slightly flat metallic taste or the evil grin spreading across Zak's face. He did notice when Zak missed the turn off for town, but by then it was too late, and he was rapidly losing consciousness.