Nineteen days. There is a line of smoke in the sky in the distance.
Soon you stop at the gate of the town. Welcome to Midfield, the sign reads. Enjoy our little town! It is not hospitality. It is an order.
There is one paved cobblestone street. It is rougher than the barren grassland you have been walking on for nineteen days. The soles of your shoes are too worn to make any sound. The only noise is the endless ringing in your ears. You are not sure if no one else hears it or if they just stopped noticing it.
All the shutters on all the houses are closed, but that is not unusual in the towns. No one else is walking in the street, but that is not unusual either. What captures your attention is the motel at the end of the street. It has a neon sign. It is a bright sign. You turn around and head down a dusty side street. You learned long ago not to trust anything with electricity.
There is a rotting sign for a café in the side street. You breathe a sigh of relief and go inside. The ringing in your ears is replaced with a low murmur of voices. You should feel at ease in the presence of other people, but you are not. People are unpredictable. You can always tell when a building or windmill is dangerous, but people do not come with warnings. Often, the cleanest-looking ones are the most threatening.
You ignore everyone and walk up to the barmaid. She smiles at you with her sharp, piercing lipstick, but the smile does not reach her eyes. God be with you, she greets. What can I help you with?
God be with you, you say in reply. How can I get to Kansas City?
The smile dies. Follow the tracks west, she says, the same thing everyone else at every other town has told you. But you do not know which direction is west. No one does.
You try anyway. Which way is west?
She turns away to fill an order. She never answers.
You do not know if you have been following the tracks east for nineteen days. You keep hoping to find someone somewhere who knows, but you haven't found anyone.
Can I order coffee? you ask. You ask that at every town you stop at, each time hoping for a different answer.
The barmaid smiles sadly. I'm sorry. We stopped serving coffee.
Everyone has stopped serving coffee. You still don't know why. But you don't ask questions, because you might get an answer.
You decide to stop and sleep for the night. You haven't slept in nineteen days, and it could be nineteen more before you reach another town. The barmaid hands you your key and warns you not to answer your door if someone knocks.
You sleep for the night.
No one knocks. Not at the door, at least.
