Neon signs beckoned with the garish vulgarity of a broken prostitute. By now they were easy to ignore, with so many clamoring to be heard, none stood out, and the eye slid past the visual noise. In a sad way, those signs represented the best and worst of Vegas.

I’d come as a freelancer when I was seventeen and the first taste was an expensive free. Before I knew it, I’d been struggling here for ten long years.

The cab driver expertly navigated the crowded streets of the Strip, dodging other cars and pedestrians alike. I was scribbling furiously in my notebook, trying to notate everything that had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours. My actual knowledge of the cabbie’s activities were limited to the sudden stops and his running commentary in broken English.

With a final, “Heyfuckayoupal,” we screeched to a halt in front a large, intimidating, pyramid-shaped building. I threw a pair of twenties down and didn’t wait for change, dashing toward the front doors. I needed answers. I needed them real bad.