Sixty-plus huddled in the boxcar; children, too tired and hungry to ask, “Are we there yet?”
Their parents prayed.
The train finally slowed to a crawl, and the families jumped off. All lumbered east towards abandoned houses silhouetted against the rising desert sun.
Shelter and ancient artesian wells fueled their hopes.
Las Vegas means "The Meadow"
“Sid must have hit a dead zone,” I thought after the dropped call. Waiting a minute, I punched in “7” when a string of “z’s” suddenly zoomed across the screen. I pushed the “home” icon, but the z’s changed to “y’s” until a sentence stuttered its message.
“Y-y-y-o-u-r c-c-c-c-a-l-l-e-r i-s-s-s d-d-d-d-e-a-d!”
Nothing could hide it. Not her perfect page-boy or her expensive dresses. My friend said the roof of her mouth was missing. That’s why she drooled all over herself. That’s why we couldn’t understand anything she said.
Not that she talked to us.
But we didn’t talk to her either.
Writing My Life 