Tightly closed, the windows ward away the frost
and unwashed hands press to glass to gauge the cold.
There, the oily memory of fingers freezes like a river, so
he rolls back over and sleeps for several more hours.
600 miles away on Interstate 40 a wizened man drives a 1976 Ford F-100.
He steers using only his rearview mirror as a guide.
Eighty miles outside of Flagstaff he careens off of a red cliff, his body turns to red dust.
It’s a shame, really; in a few moments he would have been young.
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