AT 9:40, KYLE Anza stumbled out of the hills and onto the Silver Peak road. A half moon was up, illuminating the desert in an eerie bluish-silver glow. Kyle looked north and south at the empty road, then his legs gave out. He landed on his ass in spiky weeds on the verge and toppled onto his back, then stared up at the stars.
“He said, she said,” he whispered to the dark. “Be a lot better if she doesn’t.” He chuckled almost silently.
Twenty-five minutes later, he heard the sound of an engine. Headlights appeared, coming from the north. He staggered to his feet and flagged down an ancient pickup, driven by a guy in his seventies, Arnold Becker. Like most of the folks living in Silver Peak, Becker was half hermit. He’d had his fill of city life, didn’t matter which city. They were all the same: traffic and gangs, pollution, noise, fifty kinds of mayhem. He’d escaped from Long Beach sixteen years ago and put his home maintenance skills to good use, eking out a meager but satisfying living in Silver Peak.
Becker slowed, pinning Kyle in his headlights. He rolled down a window and stopped as Kyle came around the far side of the truck, unsteady on his feet.
“Ho-ly smoke,” Becker said. “You hurt, son? I mean, that looks bad. Real bad.”
“Rolled my truck up in the hills,” Kyle said, having prepared a story in advance. “It pinned my hand against a rock, crushed the palm. I had to cut it off above the wrist with a pocket knife to get myself free.”
“Son of a gun. Second time I’ve heard about someone doing something like that.” He leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. “C’mon, get in.”
Kyle got into the truck, noting that it was a Dodge, hand-painted a vile pumpkin orange, complete with brushstrokes. He shut the door.
Becker peered at Kyle’s arm. “I better get you to a hospital right away. Nearest one’s in Tonopah. They got a medical center of some kind there. They might put you on one of them helicopter flights to Vegas.”
“How about you take me into Silver Peak instead.”
“Got no kind of a medical place there, son.”
“Doesn’t matter. Right now, I need food and water. I’ll pay you for it. I’ll get help tomorrow.”
Arnold stared at him. “You sure ’bout that? I’ve seen guys hurt before, but nothin’ like that.”
“I’m sure.”
Arnold shook his head. “Up to you, I reckon. Me, I’d want a doctor real bad.” He put the truck in gear and took off south to Silver Peak, nine miles away.