The sun has set again over the Baja desert, but the rocks still radiate their heat. Lizards and scorpions race back and forth, gathering up their heat for the night.

Trevor reflects on the steps taken to get here. He had trodden upon broken hearts and limbs. And, of course, the broken down, stolen Impala, left 10 miles back in an arroyo, itself 25 miles from the nearest road. He glances at the headless rattlesnake next to him and thinks it might be a better dinner tonight than breakfast tomorrow. Lightning arcs across the sky in the not-so-distant distance. Assuming the counting-the-seconds-between-lightning-and-thunder rule is true, then the storm is 13 miles off, and getting closer.

Weary, Trevor settles back against the most comfortable combination of cactus and jagged rock he finds. He pulls the bright pink baseball cap (mislabeling him as a “PIMP” in flashy silver sequins) down over his eyes. “Spiritual quest?” he whispers, tipping the filthy bottle of Cuervo to his lips, “Spiritual quest, my ass.”