Spare Parts

You stumbled to your feet, crossing your hands in front of you and bowing your head down.

"That there machine ain't for tinkering with."

"...No, sir."

"It's dangerous."

"...Yes, sir."

"You know what it is?"

"...no, sir."

"You fix it pretty well for someone that don't know what it is."

You started making your way towards the exit, but he caught your arm in a surprisingly strong grip for such an old, unassuming man.

His free hand lifted your tightly balled right fist and tore off the glove you had just put on. He turned your hand this way and that, watched as the oppressively hot desert sun caught the skin on the back.

Raised in the exact shape of a barcode.

He dropped your fist and finally looked at you.

"Where was it you said you was from?"