She stood at the stand-off, where road split into mirage and dust, both promising nothing but the lethargic churn of doubt. The air was parched, tense as frayed guitar string stretched over white-baked bones and stutters from dead radios. And yet, within silence something vibrated — some smell, some unseen pull, like catnip for that half-wild part of her which still believed such things existed. She laughed without knowing why. Desert, it seemed, was staging a show.