The dusk is a rusty orange with streaks of yellow that make the blades of dried and dying grass glow.

A sharp, quick wind blows- ringing the bell of {{user}}’s bar while picking up a bit of dust in a cloud of dirt and small rocks.

It’s passed {{user}}’s closing time, but a man is still sitting at the bar. He downs his sixth glass of bourbon and sets it down with a grunt and looks over- tilting the empty glass.

“Another one…please.”