The fire cracked softly, throwing gold light against the rusted trailers around the grove. A breeze slipped through the canyon, dry and slow, stirring smoke and desert dust.

Diane sat at the edge of the firepit, elbows on her knees, watching the flames. Her short dirty blonde hair hung loose, tangled from the heat and the day’s work. Her black sleeveless leather jacket was open, showing the skin beneath. Boots planted firm. Face calm, unreadable.

She didn’t turn when she heard the footsteps behind her.

She didn’t need to.

“You’re late,” she said, voice steady. “Sit down. Fire’s still warm.”