On the ascent from Beit Zayit toward Mevasseret Zion my hands were so sweaty they began to slip on the steering wheel. I'm driving slowly, I'll finish the ascent and then the descent to Abu Ghosh and then I can allow myself to remove one hand at a time from the steering wheel and dry it in front of the hot air vent.

She must notice that I'm sweating, she's sitting in the right hand corner behind me and I'm exposed to her. Maybe I should say something to her, to reassure her. She's probably scared now, she's noticed that something is wrong, that my forehead is wet, that my hands are trembling.

I ascend slowly in the left lane. A Jeep that has attached itself to my tail is blinking nervously. My hands seem petrified and I can't cross into the right lane. The Jeep passes me on the right, honking, and I'm sure that had I turned my head to the right I could have seen the driver's lips muttering curses. I must calm down, take a deep breath and try to get through the hour's drive in one piece.

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I don't understand what happened to me. Usually I'm at my best when I leave Jerusalem by myself in the direction of Tel Aviv. I like to say this sentence: "I have an important meeting in Tel Aviv." When I have such a trip I make sure that all my acquaintances know about it, I can be chatting with my mother who only called to check on us, and then come out with, "Fine, tomorrow I'm driving to Tel Aviv, I have a work meeting." Somehow the rare trips to Tel Aviv give me the feeling that I have a career.

A trip to Tel Aviv is a ritual. I always wear the same clothes to Tel Aviv, black pants and a blue-checked shirt that I bought especially from Ralph Lauren. I don't get nervous about morning drives to Tel Aviv. I'm as calm as could be, traffic reports that almost always catch me at Sha'ar Haggai about "heavy traffic from the Ben Gurion interchange via Kibbutz Galuyot" do not deter me at all. I like them, these traffic jams, I like to feel once a month like part of this wave of working people who are trying to reach the big city. To look at the name of their car model and to try to guess from that what they do, how much they earn, how many children they have. And most of all I enjoy the thought that they, like me, are trying to guess how much I earn a month and where I work.

In traffic jams to Tel Aviv I'm disguised as someone else, someone who heads a development team, but different, special. I always switch from the radio to a CD on the way to Tel Aviv, usually some remote band from the 1980s. I always open a window, even on the coldest days, and imagine that this unusual music of mine is reaching the ears of those sitting in the cars around me and that they like it and cannot identify it, and are trying to guess what is playing and admiring the head of the development team with the blue shirt who could have been a musician but went into high-tech.

I don't understand what happened to me this morning. Just when I emerged from the traffic jam at the exit from Jerusalem, just when everything was supposed to begin. I didn't think about it at all, and I, who have never been particularly nice, find myself making a sudden sharp right with the steering wheel, slamming on the brakes and stopping for a young girl who stretched out her hand at the hitchhiking stops at the exit from the city. Maybe it's my CD of The Velvet Underground, which I was sure got lost two years ago, and that I suddenly found under the seat, which brought me back to my high school days. I don't know. Long, curly black hair and clothes with a flowered print, that's all I noticed, I didn't even look at her face. "To Tel Aviv?" she asked, and I just nodded with my eyes lowered.

Now she is sitting in the back seat, probably scared to death. And I feel the beads of sweat dripping onto my blue shirt. Maybe I'll say something to her, to reassure her. But what can I say? "Listen, I'm a good guy, I'm not planning to kidnap you," would probably only make her more scared. She hasn't said a word since she entered the car, nor have I. I should have told her what I am before she even got in, then the choice would have been hers. Now it's too late.

But I look all right, I convince myself, I look like a family man, in the seat next to me there's a child's car seat and behind me another one for my daughter. So why isn't she talking? Why doesn't she open her mouth? I look in the mirror and I won't turn around to check her expression, that will only increase her fears, and maybe turning my head like that will immediately lead to spraying some substance that hitchhiking girls probably carry in their bag for self defense. I'll become blinded for a moment, I'll lose control and they'll find me in the wadi, and in the best case they'll write that I'm a pervert. I won't turn around, I'll concentrate on the driving. Maybe she doesn't even know? Maybe she's reading a book back there and that's why she's quiet, maybe she's fallen asleep; after all, it's early for a young girl. If only she would say something, just something like "It's terribly hot here," or "Can I smoke?" But nothing. I'm almost convinced now that she found some drawing, letter or story in the back seat that my daughter left there. She always leaves things there, I'll show her later, I've told her a million times not to leave anything in the car but she's stubborn.

The girl in the back has probably noticed. I hear her pushing the buttons of her cell phone. She's probably afraid to call and prefers to send an SMS or to be more precise, an SOS. How did I get myself into this, God help me. Where did this come from? There must be police cruisers on the way already, I'll drive slowly and watch the road so I can stop immediately when necessary, because those guys like to shoot. If I stop I won't make any suspicious movement, my hands will stay on the steering wheel. I'll brake hard, because any move and they can claim I tried to run them over.

In the traffic jam near Tel Aviv I feel somewhat more comfortable. We're surrounded, driving slowly, if she were in distress she could have shouted, or even opened the door and fled.

"Are you in favor of peace [shalom]?" I almost froze when I heard her voice coming from the back.

"Of course, very much so. I'm against violence in any form. I condemn any sort of belligerence, I think that we have to live..."

I hear a delicate laugh and I turn my head towards her and only now do I see her, smiling, with dimples in her cheeks. "Calm down, sweetie," she laughed, "I only asked if you'll be passing Shalom" (one of the highway exits).