In between the desert sand and the sun lies myself, the kid, and the target. We’d been awake for forty-two hours. Forty of those in, the kid asked me what milkshake tasted like.

“Diners and the likes sell stories as much as milkshakes. That ‘mom and pop’ run the business, flipping burgers day in and day out so Sally can go to the state college, the ‘good old American place.’ Most people, including me, love that kind of junk, and it seasons the food more than the short-order cook ever could.”

Dust kicked up, fine sand coating us as the ground shook from the deafening fifty-caliber rifle, usually meant for destroying tanks and aircraft, cracked off at the slightest deliberation from the kid’s finger. Through my spotting scope I confirmed the primary objective accomplished.