A New Life Under Desert Skies

Chapter 1: Dust

It wasn't the first time he'd stepped out of a smelly bus only to choke on hot, dusty air. Texas had been just as bad. Yet Clint slung his backpack over his shoulder, coughing as he waited for his lungs to accept that this was the only oxygen they'd be receiving. By the time he had himself under control, the other ​patrons had already gathered their bags and disappeared into the surrounding cars.

Wouldn't it be nice to have someone here to pick me up? A frown flickered across his freckled face. What was the point of those kinds of thoughts? It wasn't like Clint Wilhelm had any friends or family. Heck, he barely had a past longer than the three-day Greyhound ride from Boston to Scottsdale. This red-headed and lone man had been born in the death of Chase Samuelson.

Clint pulled his bag from beneath the luggage compartment and went over the directions to his apartment. Three blocks north, two west, look for the Mesa Apartments. The manager lives in number 2B. It had become something of a mantra as the bus rolled from the lush greenery of New England toward the dusty Southwest. The last thing he needed was to be lost in an unfamiliar city with no contacts and a basic flip phone as his only lifeline.

"How do people survive with such dry air?" he growled as he began trudging down the sidewalk. "And why did we have to arrive at high noon?!" Five blocks felt like ten miles through Hell. By the time he arrived at the dingy brick building he now called home, sweat ran down his entire body.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

The tinny sound of the doorbell grated on Clint's already fragile nerves, but he knew it signaled the person who could get him out of this hellscape. Sure enough, the door cracked open and the voice of an elderly woman rang out, "Hello, young man. How can I help you?"

"Hi Ma'am. I'm Ch-er, Clint Wilhelm. I'm here to get my keys?"

The folds of the woman's face shifted upwards, further obscuring her glittering eyes. "Oh, yes! Come in, my boy. Come in! Did you walk all this way from the bus station? You should have called me for a ride. These old eyes don't work so well anymore, but they're good enough to drive that far!"

"I, uh. Didn't have your number, Ma'am. Would it be alright if I just collected my keys and got on my way? I've had a long trip and I'm ready to relax." Clint shifted from foot to foot, trying not to focus on the way his clothes glued themselves to his damp skin.

The woman shook her head and grabbed Clint's hand, pulling him into her apartment with a surprising level of strength. "You still have to sign the paperwork, dearest. Come sit on the sofa and let me get you a glass of lemonade. I'm Darla, by the way. But you can call me Granny."

"Thank you, Ms. Darla," Clint resigned. He rolled his bag over to the couch and dropped, exhausted. The air conditioning inside was a godsend, returning his will to live one degree at a time.

A moment later, the landlady returned with a glass of light purple juice and a stack of papers. "Granny, not Ms. anything," she chided. "Have you ever had prickly pear lemonade before? It's my favorite." Clint shook his head, but accepted the beverage and gave it a dubious sip. It was sweet and lemon-forward, with a soft fruitiness that rounded out the flavor.

"It's delicious, thank you." He finished the whole drink while flipping through the document for initial lines. As soon as he signed the final page with a flourish, Granny smiled and handed him a pair of keys. All he could think about as the bits of metal hit his hand was how fast he could get upstairs and into the shower.

"You're in apartment 6C. My phone number and the other emergency numbers are on the last page of your copy of the lease, okay dearest? Let me know if you need anything." Granny patted Clint's hand and toddled over to the door to show him out.