The almanac from two years ago said there would be three minutes of sun to spare, and my found watch might not even have the correct time anymore, so fuel efficiency would have to wait for another day. My shitty rear wheel drive flung sand into the sunset, and I began to wonder if a car counted as a home in a situation like mine.

That’s the trouble with them though, they aren’t as afraid of fire as all the stories made them out to be. Sure, the sun may be a big ball of fire that can turn an ugly nozz straight to cinder, but a torch or molotov held in deathless hands was fair game. And that’s what happened to the old shack the night before, and what would happen to my car if I didn’t manage to find somewhere I could defend myself.

A sign for a scenic lookout ahead spells salvation, just as I hear the apocalyptic two-strokes howl behind me. Canyons only count as homes for those that have lost theirs, but it would work for tonight. I could hole up with my crossbow there, and begin the run again at dawn.