It’s a
desert. Red-brown and sandy, with winding trails. Jornada del muerto, a local sign told me. Journey of the dead man.
She’s out
there, somewhere. I can feel it.
I’m going
to tear myself from my side-mirror in a moment. I’ve gotten so filthy over the
last few days. I watched it all grow, but I couldn’t take the time to wash.
If I
stare long enough, I can almost see her, standing behind my reflection.
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