Back in the red-rock hills, the scattered ruins of a mine, thick with mechanical garbage. As though no one who worked there had ever done anything but let broken refuse fall straight from his hand.

Pack rats had annexed a battered, faded-blue Dodge van and filled it, floor to ceiling, with cholla cactus. Another rat duo—they’re usually mother-daughter pairs—lived in a fairly new range: it lay on its back, the burner holes serving as windows. I opened the oven door (the roof) and looked down into the chambers. The rats weren’t home, but the clippings were still green. Nice digs.

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