The kid pushed out through the swinging doors, stepping onto the saloon’s stoop. From here he could see the dirt street (such as it was) and two or three buildings, but beyond that — nothing. The space beyond the ‘town’ was void, but since the human mind isn’t programmed to understand a true void, it visually replaces it with a blank field where nothing should be.

The kid took a contemplative drag from his smoke.

People from all walks of life ended up here, most without ever really knowing how or why. For those who tried to leave, there was Quentin Flint. The guy draped across the bar inside was only the latest example of that cold, hard fact. You stumbled into this desolate purgatory, you never got out again.

The kid took one, last pull on his cigarette before dropping it and crushing it beneath his boot heel.

Everyone knows that in this part of town, no one messes with Quentin Flint because, hey, there is no other part of town.

The kid pushed back through the doors. An eternity of Piano Joe awaited.