☀ What a Difference a Day Makes

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C H A P T E R  4: What a Difference a Day Makes

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    At this point in Skylar's travels, he began to believe that the blood coursing through his veins was not blood at all; it was equal parts gasoline and motor oil. God forbid anyone struck a match too close to him...

    It took Skylar four days of driving to find himself in the middle of bum-fuck Arizona.  In all actuality, he was sure he was somewhere near Tucson, but he did not have a map for Arizona. The only map he ever had was for Michigan, which was now, presumably, in the bottom of some aquatic creature's stomach in the middle of the Atlantic — before he crossed the line that differentiated Maryland from West Virginia, he tossed the map, and all of his corresponding sentiments in regards to Michigan, into the ocean. Cathartic was the only world he could think of to describe the feeling of chucking that god-forsaken diagram of interstates and unkind childhood memories into the sea.

    Now, however, the only thing he felt was ill. He had only been in Arizona for a few hours, and he had already experienced two earth-shaking thunderstorms, hail the size of golf balls, and a stroke-inducing heat wave. The humidity was stifling, and the constant change in atmospheric pressure was giving him a headache. After spending two years of his life in southern California, he never thought he could experience a volcanic vortex of heat as horrible as that anywhere else in the world... until Arizona.

    It was then that Skylar realized that Arizona was the type of place that never did anything half-assed; like, if it was going to rain, then, for God's sake, someone better build an ark. Normally, that was a trait he admired, but when it came to Arizona, the jury was still out.

    Skylar spent most of those few hours in Arizona driving through the metaphorical middle-of-nowhere that was the state's numerous, vast deserts. There was nothing but dry, cracked dirt dotted with cacti for miles. The amount of cacti in Arizona almost rivaled the number of palm trees in California, he noticed. Eventually, he wished for a change in scenery. Even a flower would suffice; a big, plum-colored Blood lily, possibly — despite his uncertainty if they were native to the state.

    His wish was granted in the form of a lot more than he bargained for. Instead of a Blood lily, he got a town. The first one, and possibly the only one, for miles. It was small, like the type you would see in some horribly cliche, straight-to-DVD film, where everyone knows everyone and they are all, quite possibly, related.

    He pulled off on the side of the road on the outskirts of the town, parking just behind a motel and a small convenience store. According to the peeling paint of a nearby wooden sign, the town was inaptly titled Santan Valley — POPULATION 873. As far as Skylar could see, there was no valley of any sort. Everything was flat. Flat and covered in a thick film of dirt. Its inhabitants must have had a totally different definition of "valley" than the rest of the English-speaking population, he presumed.

    For a moment, he mulled over the idea of entering Santan Valley, just to see what this town was all about, before realizing that he was unbelievably hot sitting in the sticky, leather seat of the Chevelle. He jumped out of the car like a great fire was licking at his heels. He peeled off his white T-shirt, soaked so thoroughly with sweat that it was practically transparent, and hopped up onto the hood of the Chevelle. He laid splayed out and bare-chested across the hood, hoping, and quite nearly praying, for a breeze. Really, more than anything, he wished his air conditioning worked, but the AC belt damn-near caught fire, spitting out thick, gray clouds of smoke from beneath the hood back in New Mexico the previous day. With only a little less than a hundred dollars left to his name, he decided he could not chance getting the belt replaced. He needed his money for more important things, like food.

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