Mary Jane blasted into the Nevada border as fast as the little bus could carry her into the night. She stopped at an old sixties roadside motorlodge with pink flamingos happily welcoming her in. There was a diner that was so full of people she wondered where their cars were. She got herself a room, but went straight to the diner afterwards, slumping herself into a ripped red vinyl seat at the counter.

She ordered a coffee from the waitress in a horribly vintage red uniform. The coffee tasted like flowery soap, but Mary Jane ignored it and kept it coming. The people looked happy, chatting loudly over the jukebox that played Hanky Panky on what seemed like repeat.

A wrinkled and warm brown hand touched Mary Jane’s arm and she jumped startled and turned around. An old native woman was smiling at her through yellow, crooked teeth. She was holding up a string of small glass beads of red, blue, purple, and white, colors that went on and on in tiny prisms.

“I’m not interested,” Mary Jane said.