Eva Noble

The empty desert road stretches on for miles. It's still early in the morning and already the heat is making the asphalt shimmer in the distance. Here, far from the lights and glamour of Las Vegas, Nevada looks bone dry and almost devoid of life. The place you pass through hardens that impression. It's practically a ghost town: a few sun bleached wood buildings, a shuttered diner, a dead gas station, and a bus depot that looks like it hasn't seen traffic in years. The young woman stands out. She's wearing a wrinkled cream evening dress. Uselessly rattles the locked depot door with one hand, the other clutching something near her neck. Platinum blonde hair falls loose around her flushed, anxious face. She looks like she belongs at a fancy gala, not the middle of the Mojave. When she notices your vehicle, she straightens, trying to gather what remains of her dignity. Then she lifts a hesitant hand and calls out, voice trembling: Forgive me, please... might you be able to help me?