On my first trip out West, my brother Matt and I drove into the Arizona desert where we discovered what we thought was an abandoned farm. The corrals were empty sand, the windmill lopsided with missing blades, and the farmhouse floor was littered with bottles and hypodermic needles. It reminded us both of the old houses overrun by scrub and swamp that we’d explored in our home state of Florida. The sort of place filled with mystery and danger and ghosted with evidence of past events.
Outside, we kicked at the sand, leaned on a fence, and plotted where to go next. Matt suddenly stiffened, nodded toward the far side of the corral. A man and two boys had materialized from the rippling heat. They were armed with rifles. The sun burned brighter.
