I followed the map, that unliving thing, that neither invites nor warns me, to the end of the road. To High Rock Canyon, where thousands before me passed through on their way to Oregon Territory. It is one of those places no one stayed. Fifty miles from Gerlach, the Black Rock, farther than nowhere. The silence doesn't mean that the desert hasn't anything to say to me. To the wind I am a drop of water, caught up in some protein.
When it was dark and the stars and I were reading a book by lantern light, I heard a shuffling from the sage. She was standing, politely at the edge of the darkness. She flapped her arms against her sides. "Sir," her words fought the wind to get to me, "may I come into your camp, sir?" It's customary to ask, announce yourself. At least it once was, that's what I've heard. "It's cold, sir, there are no other camps around."

Her feet and movements, driven by exposure, were betrayed by the summer air. It was not cold. She could not get warm here. "I can't help you.", I said, somehow unafraid.

She stepped into the light. That's when I saw her leathered skin. Her worn out clothes from long ago. She has been wandering at least a hundred years. I could see the bones of her hands and neck. "You look so warm, sir. It's like you're glowing." She stepped a bit closer and held out her hand.

I tried to make it clear to her. "We're only in the same place. We're not here together." She pulled back her hand, stepped back a bit. I could see understanding come over her.

"Not again." She said, as lonely as I've every heard anyone say such a thing. "Oh, God, not again."

She turned and walked back off into the night. Off to look for who left her here.