In the dusty back room with the accordion door, an old man sits in a dry seat surrounded by slowly expanding twists of sage smoke and small electric lights. He stares carefully at some furniture toward the far end of the room and lets a small window fan lift and toss his string hair in the night heat. On a night like tonight, his rusted pop-up trailer - the same that he dragged out to this strip of canyon land some years ago with a borrowed truck - seems deceivingly large in the dark.
On a scratched table in the corner, a small, blocky radio whispers static and peers out at the world through its bright red power light. The old man checks a clock by the door and blinks lazily. Four o'clock. Not good enough.
Outside, a wolf howls and some insects skitter through the crazy sand for the cover.
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