The desert air smells like burnt tire rubber and dried mouse turds. From a hundred feet away Harold can hear the whoosh of cars on 15 heading either to Vegas or Los Angeles. The heat hasn’t dissipated by the lack of sun. It’s just dark now and he still feels wrapped in a hot oven.
He hitched a ride and got dropped off here on a dirt road in the dark. He’ll find another ride tomorrow when the sun comes up.
A coyote howls in loneliness.
“I feel ya buddy,” he answers back.
Having nothing better to do he starts walking, but shortly stops when the failed seam along the outside of his left boot, which exposed his sockless foot to the elements, picks up a sharp pebble.
He takes his book off to shake it free.
With boot in hand he is startled by the sudden intrusive vroom of a 12 piston German manufactured engine and bright halogen lights bearing down on him.
Fritz is drunk and has forgot he is even driving as he stares down at the library of music on his phone.
He wants a wicked beat to enter California with.
His foot sinks further down on accelerator and the back end of the BMW skids on the dirt as he hits play on a bass and drum piece pumping his fist.
The good news is Harold doesn’t feel the car slam into his body. Only his weak heart exploding in fear.