Chapter Two: The Indian Reservation Station
A car sliced through the heavy hot air, roaring across the desert highway. Blasting past a rickety and wind worn sign, that read; Indian Reservation Station, one mile ahead. The wind slapped at the sign, vibrating it at a loose screw. It then settled into stillness, after the vehicles passing wake, subsided.
In the Desert, on a hot sweltering afternoon, the sun literally bakes the Earth's crust. An unclear horizon lay in ripples of distorted reality. In a land thought to be too hot to live in, illusions dance with highway heat waves.
Sand and dust swirled in an upward curl behind the vehicle along the roadside as it drove across the asphalt pavement. Hot tar resembles the sound of a rain-wet road as the tires gyrate through the black soup. Like a still Black River on a gray highway, the tires rode in the groove, of the well traveled.
Lynn reached out and turned the radio off. The annoying 'crackling' sound disappeared and the wind rushing in the open windows became crystal clear. She pulled her whipping loose strands of short hair, up behind her head and held it there. Basking in the breeze that flowed across her neck and shoulders she charged through the blistering heat.
The car rumbled a thunderous sound across silent dunes and parches of cracked Earth. Echoing off distant pillars of paramount rocks and wind beat miniature mountains. Miles and miles of dirt grit and sand as far as the eye can see.
Brown, dried and dead vegetation scattered in a peculiar pattern. Slightly, evenly spaced, possibly the exact distance needed to sustain vegetation with such a limited water supply. This dead brown color soaked into the landscape. Blending in the distance, into one solid dull, dry golden brown.
Lynn licked her parched lips, as the Station grew closer. It looked like a small tin barn with signs from the distance. As the rustic old service station grew closer, she saw a soda machine out front. Like an oasis in the desert or a magnet to the metal of her car. She pulled into the Indian Reservation Station, directly in front of the soda machine.
Lynn turned the car key off and the motor quit. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and with her other hand released the door handle. The car door swung open and she rolled out of the low riding Saab.
Her blouse was soaking wet across her back. Lynn shut the car door and slung her purse strap over her shoulder. Then pulled her shirt outward, shaking it to allow air to her skin and to shed the sticky shirts grip.
She began walking towards the station entrance and stopped when she saw the large woven spider web at the glass. She took one step backwards, then saw the big sign posted in the door's window: Closed.
Straight in front of her was the machine. A large picture of an ice cold can drink molded into the machines facial features. The cold sweat beads were in tiny bubbles along the can's picture. A tantalizing advertising sales incitement, out here in the desert. Teasing any whom didn't have change.
Lynn quickly began scrounging around the bottom of her purse. She mostly dropped her change into the large opening and rarely put coins selectively into a compartment. Her hand emerged with a small stack of coins and she began sorting the change.
A large gust of wind blew fiercely, slinging a million sand pellets against the stations structure. Lynn turned her head instinctively away from the on coming gust and shielded her eyes. She dropped a couple of coins but her mind was more concerned with ensuring her eyes didn't get sand in them than to bother looking where they fell.
The strong wind blew past and a calm to light hot breeze trailed. Lynn unfolded her hand and resumed counting her change. She flicked back her hair and stood in front of the machine studying the selections. As she recalled the coins that had fallen she turned to give a quick glance and saw an old woman standing next to her.
Lynn was at first startled then noticed the woman's hand was extended outward with two silver coins in her palm.
