The sky was beginning to turn, the black of night fading into the deep grey of the approaching day. It was a shame. Morgan had been enjoying the deep of the night and the sepulchral cool that came with the wind as it whispered it's way across the dark wasteland that surrounded her. With a groan, she began to stretch and smacked her elbow against the edge of a half empty bottle of Jack that had been lying next to her. Cursing, Morgan rolled off the hood of her car, falling in a heap atop dusty pavement, clutching at her arm as spikes of pain radiated up the bone. Still cursing, Morgan rolled to her knees and staggered up to her feet to glare out at the retreating cover of night.
She was somewhere outside of Stagecoach, Nevada, a barren landscape of dust and rock, and stunted little bushes and trees. For someone with a greater connection to the living, this would be a magnificent place, a testament to how much life there is even in the harshest of climates, but for her it was as close as she could get to total desolation. Muttering under her breath she grasped for the bottle, the cool press of the glass against her skin a welcome distraction from the fading pain in her bone.
She was surrounded by a sea of grey stone and dust as far as the eye could see, even the stretch of highway deserted and still. A swig of Jack burned its way down her throat and she sighed in satisfaction, leaning back against the Buick. She liked it out here. The landscape was quiet and still, almost empty, and it seemed as if all that emptiness gave way and allowed all those thoughts that lay in the back of her skull room to come out and play. Which was what she'd needed. She'd needed time to think. But, with the rising sun, the time for thinking had come and gone. What was grey was slowly being replaced with an expanse of brown, and soon the glare of the sun would in her eyes once again, the world inescapably alive, and that brought her back to the memories that had risen like specters in the night. Memories of whispered confidences shared in the dark, of a smile, of harsh words and broken glass.
Exhaling through her nose, Morgan got up off the car and strolled around to the passenger door. She popped it, leaned in to open the glove box and started rifling through it, old receipts and wiring falling to the floor before she found what she was looking for: a burner phone. She flipped it open and stared down at the blank screen before jamming the on button and taking another swig of bourbon for courage. She'd already lost the cap; might have to find the nearest motel, or some family of lizards was going to get drunk off their asses.
Finally, the fucking thing powered up, a cheery cascade of beeps announcing it's presence to the world, and before she could reconsider she began to dial. Her lungs forgot the necessity of breathing as it began to ring. But as it continued to ring, and ring, and ring, Morgan felt a frown dragging at the edges of her mouth.
It went to voicemail.
There was a moment of silence, and then Morgan forced herself to speak.
"Uh, hey,"she began, pausing to clear the grit from her throat.
"Um, anyways. It's Arnie. You know, your sis? Yeah. Well, I'm reaching out again. In Sacramento, like we discussed. Just wanted to let you know I made it. I know we didn't end our last conversation very well. I mean, I know it's been years since things were good between us. Ever since I left for Mexico, really, and I know that's my fault.
"I just," Morgan trailed off, taking in a deep breath. What could she say? What could salvage the rift that had grown between them?
"I want to make it up to you. So let me know if you're still coming, on the number we discussed last time. If you're not coming, or you don't call, then, well, I guess I'll stop. Hope time heals, and all that. Love you, sis. Bye."
She was tearing up a little bit as she snapped the phone shut. A second later, the little black flip phone met the pavement with a resounding crack. She kicked it into the dust, pausing only to bend and pick up a rock. The sun began to peek above the horizon as she raised the stone into the air and let it fall against the phone, plastic and glass shattering beneath her blows. She dropped the rock once the phone had become nothing more than a mangled pile of junk, exposed silicon and copper visible in the light of dawn. A stream of whiskey splashed down onto the phone as Morgan began to empty to the bottle onto it, hopefully frying whatever functioning components were left. Sure, she could have melted it all down, or something, but this seemed fitting, and good enough.
Turning on her heel, Morgan made her way back to the Buick. It was time to head back to Sacramento and see what awaited her.
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