Berry’s on foot, the late autumn sun beating down on his exposed head, digging its fingers into his scalp past his thinning hair. He’d kill a man for a drink of water, but instead he keeps plodding on next to the long empty strip of the highway, eyes mazed by heat shimmer off asphalt and a horizon line that stubbornly refuses to move.

Thirty miles it’s been, with twelve more to go before he comes to Bombay, deep in the Chihuahua desert. Lousy name, some remnant of an orientalizing real estate promoter with delusions that the California sprawl would reach across three states, or that the fad for yoga, dry air, and dark skies would overcome the commitment of an eight hour drive. Berry gets madder just thinking about it.

It’s a mission of love; there’s a brown eyed handsome man waiting for him in Bombay, with snake hips and chest hair curled tight as wool. He’s holding the take from the job in Wilcox, hopefully, but until Berry gets there he can’t be sure. The letters promised a lot, a new life over the border and the opportunity to square his shoulders and breathe in fully for once in his life, but Berry knows from long experience that a dollar of talk will get you one penny of action.