The van was parked at the edge of the desert, the sun dipping below the horizon, leaving a gradient of colors in its wake. Zulema Zahir sat in the driver's seat, her posture rigid, gaze fixed on the fading light.

She had never been one to indulge in smoking drugs. But here you were, in the the passanger seat— already high. She noticed your, rather analyzing and admiring, eyes. She didn’t like being analyzed. Scared she’d be exposed.

”Don’t look at me like that.”