Norm sat on the porch watching the line of tail lights weave through the Mojave. The traffic coiled back and forth, miles along the road to the east and so far back to the west, it faded to dust.
The screen door banged. His wife, Jeanie, placed a cold beer down, the glass already beaded with condensation. She rested a hand on his shoulder, groaned as she lowered herself to sit.
The distant red lights grew fainter, finally vanishing over the horizon. The sun was almost set, scorching the hills scarlet and purple. Something small and scared scuffled under the creosote bushes. The untidy flap of a bat cut the sky.
‘You think it’s what you heard on the radio?’ said Jeanie.
He nodded. She sighed, slipping her hand into his.
‘Got shells for the shotgun?’
‘Yep,’ he said, reaching for his beer.