It didn’t look like the kind of place that might hold the key to salvation.
In fact, it was little more than an unsightly growth along an otherwise unblemished stretch of highway. Four small buildings of sand-blasted brick and sun-blistered wood, each marked by a single generic sign that announced its purpose: “Gas” and “Diner” on one side, “Motel” and “Bar” on the other. Between each pair of buildings lay a gravel lot large enough to accommodate the tractor-trailers that accounted for much of the traffic in this unrequited corner of the world.
Rik slowed his car and pulled into the gas station alongside the lone gas pump. An unkempt little man wearing oil-stained overalls and no shirt emerged from the shadow of the open garage bay and approached as Rik stepped out of the car and surveyed the desolate landscape. Nothing but scrub and sand in all directions, occasionally interrupted by a tiny silver trailer baking in the sun—a nighttime home for one of the few mummified souls who actually lived here…
