I’ve handled every twisted prank teenagers leave along Route 66, but when I cut open the taped cardboard box roasting in the noon sun, what I found inside dropped me to my knees.
The box was sitting on the shoulder like somebody had kicked it out of a moving truck and decided the rest of the world could deal with it.
Silver duct tape crossed the top in thick strips.
The cardboard had already started to sag from the heat.
The bottom of it pressed into pale dust and broken gravel, and past the guardrail, the desert shimmered so hard the horizon looked like it was breathing.
It was Tuesday afternoon.
My dashboard read 104.
I remember that number because later, when people asked me what I saw first, I kept seeing the red digits on the dash before I saw anything else.
One hundred and four degrees.
A paper cup of coffee sat in the holder beside me, gone warm and bitter.
