The heat does strange things across the sands of the valley once the sun is high in the sky. Many people talk about the beauty of the desert, or how the sand sparkles all the colors of the rainbow in the dawn, but as the mercury rises, humans vanish from the landscape for the refuge of air conditioning and shade. Shimmers of heat distort more than just vision. Reality itself begins to bend under the relentless sun, until the rare human out in the middle of the day begins to see things that could not be. Far worse is anyone who finds himself walking down a ribbon of black asphalt in the blazing heat. Cheap shoes stick to the tacky surface like walking across a frying pan, and every blessed gust of wind carries with it enough heat to cook a pizza and a fine dust like abrasive talcum powder. Walking alongside the baking highway is little better because every fragment of sharp rock or thorn cuts into tender feet, burrowing into the thin plastic soles or embedding themselves into sweaty socks. The only option for the wearer is to hop on one foot while trying to clear the painful object, simply to pick up another after a few minutes or interminable hours of walking. A car driving across that infinite ribbon of asphalt appears to the viewer as an illusion at first, surrounded by the shimmer of an unreal phantom. As it grows closer, still silent as a ghost, it begins to become solid, floating like a speedboat over the landscape until the wheels start to appear, and then the low rumble of the engine. John stuck out his thumb. It was the first car he had seen in… he was not certain. A shining image of darkness in overwhelming light, it continued onward in his direction as if intending on passing by, only to slow rapidly and stop a halt a few feet away. The driver of the black convertible, a red-faced overweight man, looked John over, from tattered shoes to broad-brimmed hat, and gave a winsome smile. “I’ll skip the obvious, lad. Help me get the top up and you can cool off while we travel. A man who bakes out in this heat will fry like bacon.” The surface of the car was as hot as the sun, and John sucked on a burned finger by the time he settled into the passenger seat and the driver turned on the air conditioning. The top had only put up a token fight, but now it kept the blazing heat at bay while the convertible accelerated back down the road. “Helel ben Shahar,” said the driver, sticking out one muscular hand while driving with the other. “What’s your name, son?” “John van der Sloot,” said John, trying not to wince at the crushing pressure of the handshake. “Headed back to college in San Francisco, but I’ll go with you as far as you’ll take me.” The red-faced man gave John a sideways glance, but did not say anything else. The inside of the car was becoming welcome cool, but the suffocating stench of cigarettes only penetrated further into John’s sinuses as they began to dry. The ash tray was heaped with butts, snubbed out at the filters with a few of them trickling out onto the floor. The man followed John’s expression and brought out a fresh cigarette with a flick of his fingers like some sort of magic trick. “Smoke?” “No thanks.” John pulled his line of sight back to the windshield and the desolate landscape flying by. “It’s a nasty habit,” he added despite himself. “Vice is vice,” said Helel. “Odd choice of words for somebody on the road out of Vegas with nothing but a backpack and their hat. How much did you lose?” “What makes you think I was gambling?” The man did not respond immediately. Instead, he put the cigarette between his lips, pushed in on the lighter, and only started talking once he got it lit. “You’re a kid. You’ve got that look about you, like a kid who traveled to Sin City knowing everything about how he was going to take it for every penny he could. Then…” The man blew out a cloud of smoke into the air-conditioned breeze of the car’s interior. John coughed intentionally. The man ignored him, taking another puff. “So what was it, kid? Slots? Blackjack? That’s always a good one. Smart kid like you thinks he can calculate the odds better than the house. Gets rolling pretty good and they slip a new dealer onto you with a fresh set of cards.” After a period of time with no answer, the man reached into the back seat and produced a bottle of water from a cooler that John had not noticed before. “Here, kid. Bet you’re dry as a rasin from your little stroll. A man could die in a few hours walking in this heat.” “I’m not stupid.” John twisted the lid off the bottle and took a deep drink of the icy water anyway. It was very difficult to stop, as every cell in his body seemed to clamor for more even after he drained it to the very bottom of the flimsy plastic. “I had a gallon jug before I started walking, and I’ve got a pair of two-liter bottles of water still in my backpack.” It took only a quick zip to open said backpack and display his foresight, which would have been more effective if either of the old soda bottles had any water left in them. He could remember getting them out to drink once or twice… or maybe more. The overweight man held out another bottle of water for John, which he accepted and took a measured drink out of before adding, “Thanks.” “Think nothing of it.” Helel continued to drive with only the low thrumming of the big engine and the noise of the wind for entertainment. He put out the smoldering cigarette once it burned down to the filter and the air became slightly clearer once the smoke escaped, but did not seem to want to talk any more. It allowed John to take a longer look at his benefactor and the smooth black convertible he owned, both of which bespoke of a great amount of money. The man had an immaculately tailored sport jacket over a dry white shirt, starched and prim to the limit of the fabric, while the car’s interior had a similar expensive look and feel to it, with supple Corinthian leather and an expensive sound system which remained unused. Even the cigarettes looked expensive, with a slim gold band around the filters and a sickly sweet scent which was not quite like any other cigarette John had ever smelled before. It raised an itch in the back of John’s mind which refused to be quashed by any amount of staring out of the window and looking for the occasional road runner or lizard. “So, what do you do for a living?” asked John, once he ran out of patience. “I sell dreams.” The man made a motion as if he were going to get out another cigarette, but thought better of it. “Life insurance, annuities, mutual funds. All things that kids your age have no respect for. You can’t see the future, except where you’re going to eat next or which girl you want to pork. Show me a college student with a good portfolio in the Morningstar fund, and I’ll show you a unicorn. They’re both mythical creatures, only you have a better chance of seeing a unicorn in a whorehouse.” “My uncle has money,” retorted John out of some instinctive urge to defend his past. “He’s some high mucky-muck over in the Netherlands. He’s paying for my degree in architecture.” “But I’ll bet you’ve never built a building in your life,” countered the red-faced man with a wave of one hand holding an unlit cigarette, which he had produced during John’s conversation. “You have no idea how to mix concrete, or weld steel beams, or even run a riveting machine. Never stood out in the blazing sun and even laid asphalt, God’s gift to the unskilled worker. Have you even held a hammer, kid?” “I built a treehouse,” said John, feeling very small. “Well, my father did most of the work. But I held the boards.” “And yet you plan on building skyscrapers,” said Helel. He gestured out the window with his unlit cigarette. “What do you see out there, kid?” It was a foolish question, but the middle-aged man was driving, so John humored him. “Miles and miles of worthless desert.” “Ha.” Helel lit his cigarette and gestured again once it was trailing smoke. “That’s all anybody saw in Las Vegas until they opened it up for gambling. Now there’s a few million people out on that worthless chunk of sand, and you can’t buy a square foot of property there without paying through the nose.” “That’s Vegas,” scoffed John. “The rest of the place is worthless. It’s dead.” “Worthless?” Helel raised an eyebrow and pointed with his smoldering cigarette across a wide swath of the desolate landscape. “Out there in all that nothing, the government saw a place to test the most powerful weapons mankind has ever seen since the first idiot picked up a stick. There must have been a hundred bomb tests done out there, all watched over by people with huge brains, far smarter than either of us. Children playing with the elemental forces of creation while they tore apart God’s own building blocks with atomic hammers. You know what they said about the first A-bomb tests, kid?” He could vaguely remember having seen a video or two on the subject, but John’s only real memory came out of a movie. “I have become death, destroyer of worlds.” He paused before adding, “I never did understand that.” The statement seemed to energise the middle-aged man, and he took a puff before continuing with abrupt gestures and motions. “When they tested the first atomic bomb, they weren’t sure if it was going to ignite the atmosphere of the planet. One bomb and—” He blew a smoke ring, which the car’s air condition promptly shredded. That sucked the whole atmosphere out of any conversation. Miles of featureless desert passed without a word being spoken, endless dusty expanses with little flecks of green where cacti and desert plants fought for every drop of water. It was like another world, filled with death and desolation and separated away from John by only a fragile pane of automotive glass. He could hardly remember his time spent in endless drudgery, trudging along the road in the baking sun, like it had happened to another person who deserved that kind of hellish punishment for their sins of avarice and greed. After a time, he could see the mushroom clouds of nuclear destruction climbing into the sky with the imagined fire of their detonation hot on his face. Weapons of war beyond human comprehension setting the desert alight with their touch in a stage rehearsal for the inevitable end of times when their march of atomic destruction would sweep the world. Even then, the lizards would survive, like the little flickers of motion he could see on the roadway where their grey and green bodies would dart away to avoid being crushed. Maybe the radiation would cause them to grow to immense sizes, scurrying through the radioactive ruins of dead cities and making their dens in crumbled concrete and rusted steel. “It is scripture,” said the middle-aged man abruptly, knocking John out of his musings. “From when Lord Krsna is talking about his purpose in life, to destroy everything, from the mightiest to the least of creatures. As Death, all things bow to his will. Death claims us all in the end.” Helel crushed out the cigarette he had been smoking, although it was only half-consumed. “We plan and plot against him, with insurance and other creations of Mankind to lessen the impact of his sharp sword, to no avail. All the wealth of nations piled up will not stay his touch. In the end, he collects us all in his dark chariot and carries us away to our final destination.” John could feel an icy chill sweep through him, despite the furnace of heat still radiating through the car windows. For one long moment, it had become a black chariot being pulled by a fiery steed and driven by the skeletal form of Death, then in the blink of an eye, it was just a black convertible again, giving out the low roar of expiring gasoline through heavy pistons while punching a cool hole in the blazing day. He took a drink out of the fresh water bottle he was holding, although he had no memory of having it handed to him, and tried to look out the window again. “Poker,” said the man once he had fished out another unlit cigarette. “That’s what got you, isn’t it?” John nodded, which Helel seemed to find funny from his low chuckle which followed. “Did you keep the deck? Just for curiosity's sake, of course,” added Helel. It was the only thing John had managed to keep, since even his return bus ticket had been cashed in to pay the serious-looking gentlemen who had taken his money at the table. He produced the cards with a flourish, and ran through a quick shuffle before fanning them out in front of them. “Pick a card, any card,” said Helel. “Here, take the wheel for a second.” The middle-aged man released the steering wheel with both hands, and plucked the deck of cards out of John’s grasp when he grabbed for it. Although John had to keep his eyes mostly on the road to keep the convertible steering straight, he could see enough to be impressed with the way Helel ran through several quick shuffles, fanning out the cards and stepping through various cuts and riffles. Giving the deck one last cut, he dealt five cards onto each of their laps and reclaimed the steering wheel. “What was that all about?” John picked up his cards out of reflex and checked them, feeling moderately proud that even in the strange circumstances, he had three of a kind. “Whatever you want to make of it.” The man took a quick peek at his own cards and tucked them under his thigh. “How much did you lose on that last hand of poker?” “None of your business.” John took another look at his cards, unconsciously moving the two he would normally have discarded over to the right edge of the hand. After another mile or two when the driver said nothing else, John added, “Fifty thousand dollars.” “The proceeds of many profitable poker games among friends and family at San Francisco State, I presume?” “University of San Francisco,” corrected John. “And… mostly. I played some in town. Saved a little money on the side.” The driver tiched quietly under his breath with the unlit cigarette bobbing along. “Doesn’t want to dirty his hands with construction, but more than happy to relieve the working man of his excess money. The Jesuits should have taught you better, but I suppose some young men learn their lessons from experience instead.” “I’m near the top of my class in college. And I was doing just fine in Vegas. For a while.” Helel moved the unlit cigarette to the other side of his mouth and smiled, a thin, predatory expression that would not have looked out of place on a shark. “Let me guess. You worked your way up in the games at Vegas until you were invited to a private game, one that you were assured held six strangers. The pots got larger, and you won some, until at the last hand, you had some [i]very[/i] nice cards. Then…” “Are you saying I was cheated?” The cards felt cold and clammy in John’s hand, and he took another look to make sure they had not changed since the last time he saw them. “Child. I’m saying you might as well have handed those nice gentlemen every penny you had when you walked into the casino and saved yourself the trouble.” Helel finally lit the cigarette and jabbed it at John like an accusatory finger of glowing coals. “Are you still in a betting mood?” “I don’t have any money. You know that.” With a wave of his smoking cigarette, Helel dismissed his protest. “That doesn’t keep you from betting. Go ahead.” “I need to know what’s in the pot.” John fought back the urge to wipe his damp fingers against his pants. “Everything.” Helel took a deep drag off the cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke much like a dragon’s breath. “Your whole life has come down to those five cards. Are you in? Or do you fold?” Part of John’s mind urged him forward, but it was the same part that had dragged him into the casino and refused to let him leave when he was ahead. Instead, he rolled down the window a crack and threw out his cards, watching them flutter in the wake of the convertible’s rapid pace. For a long moment, Helel just looked at him, then burst into laughter and threw his own cards out of his window. “Maybe you’re not the fool I thought.” Helel snuffed out his cigarette, left the window cracked until the air was clear in the car again, then rolled it back up. He pointed ahead where there was a gas station shimmering in the waves of heat coming off the asphalt, with several cars parked outside near the bus stop sign. “Civilization, at last. Do you need to water a cactus while I get gas or are you still dehydrated?” John took the bottle of water that he was given and took a long drink while thinking. “I better use the bathroom. It’s still a long way until… where are you going, anyway?” “That’s a good question.” Helel scratched his sunburned nose while lifting his foot off the gas, allowing the throaty roar of the car to slow. “I’ll let you know when I know.” Once John got out of the car, blinking in the bright sunshine, he realized his need to use the facilities was a little greater than he anticipated. Helel stopped him before he could go inside, holding out several bills. “Here you go, kid. I know you’re busted, but I’ve got a little extra.” “I can’t—” As if he had not heard the protest, the middle-aged man pressed the bills into John’s hand . “You need it. I know what it feels like to have made a bad decision. Besides, I had a friend named John once. Reminds me a lot of you. Constantly getting in too deep and having to be bailed out, but he worked with his hands.” Helel took John’s soft hands in his own and closed his fingers around the bills. “There’s honesty in hard work.” “Construction?” John stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” “At the bottom, of course, and work your way up.” It was something to think about while John darted across the scorching pavement into the oasis of cool air. He took some extra time to get washed up after using the bathroom and refilled his water bottles in the backpack, considering the people who had built this building in the middle of nowhere. Construction companies were always looking for additional help, and the burly guys he had played poker with back in San Francisco were a rough but honest lot. It made a lot of sense, particularly with the flights of fancy some of his professors went on about when showing off structures which looked pretty, but must have been a cast-iron bitch to build. He was just coming back out into the main section of the gas station when John noticed a lack of car outside at the pumps. John flagged down the attendant, who was stocking cigarettes behind the sign that said ‘Bus Tickets.’ “Hey, what happened to the old guy in the convertible?” “Him?” The young woman pushed a last pack of cigarettes into the display. “Paid for his gas and cigs, then left. Oh, and this must be for you.” She handed him a bus ticket, paid all the way back to San Francisco. “Next bus’ll be by in about two hours, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. You need anything while you wait? We’ve got some video poker machines.” John just stared at the ticket, then slipped it inside his pocket. “No, I think I’ll just have a sandwich. And some water.” She shrugged and passed over the plastic-wrapped sandwich from the cooler. “Suit yourself. Water’s over there. That’ll be six fifty.” John dug into his pocket and produced the bills, but leafed through them first. After some thought, he extracted a ten out of the wad and passed it over, pocketing his change. There was a seat next to the window where he could sit and eat his lunch while looking out across the desert, which he did. The sandwich was tasteless and dry, but filled an empty pit in his stomach while he put two of the remaining bills on the table and considered them, along with the strange man who had given them to him. When the bus showed up two hours later to carry him home, he was still considering the two twenty-dollar silver certificates, but he had decided on at least one thing for certain. He was going to take the old man’s advice. A job in construction would help him in school as much as it would help him develop as a person. Maybe something in carpentry.